


Her Unexpected Journey

by Seiwrah



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adaptation, Adventure, Don't really know how else to tag this, F/M, Female Bilbo, Female Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Gen, Genderbending, My First Work in This Fandom, Romance, Storytelling, Work In Progress, basically a retelling of The Hobbit with a female Bilbo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-04 23:47:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3097061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seiwrah/pseuds/Seiwrah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit. Her name was Bilba Baggins, a gentle-lady respected by all of the Shire who never had anything unexpected ever happen to her. That all changes when a company of dwarves comes knocking on her door, and she is whisked away on an adventure to act as a burglar in their quest. </p><p>(This is a retelling of The Hobbit mainly referencing the novel and containing interpretations from the movie as well, but there is one change: "Bilbo" is genderbent to be "Bilba." This of course leads to events that never actually happened, but hopefully are interesting nonetheless.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! Thanks for checking this fic out! It's my first one for The Hobbit--I was just really interested in the dynamic a female amongst the company could bring. Please let me know what you think if you get a moment! Also, I wrote fem!Bilbo's name as being "Bilba," but I have seen "Bella" and "Billa" as well, among others. Not sure if I'll change it or not, but I'm curious to know what all of you prefer?

Bilba had just settled down to enjoy her cup of tea, embroidery in one hand and a seed-cake in the other. She was comfortable enough and had plumb forgotten the unsettling event of yesterday. But once she heard a sudden rap upon her door, the memory of Gandalf’s visit and her promise to tea with him this day jolted to the front of her mind. Bilba hurriedly placed another cup and saucer upon the table and set out an extra seed-cake or two. She was very annoyed with herself for having forgotten the invitation she offered, but since she hadn’t written it down after their shocking encounter she couldn’t have been that prone to remember it in the first place.

Bilba rushed towards the door, and prepared to apologize for making Gandalf wait on the doorstep for this long, but she cut her apology short for it was not Gandalf standing before her. It was a dwarf. She had never seen a dwarf before, but knew enough about them to know that this bearded, bulky fellow was indeed a dwarf.

The dwarf looked just as surprised to see Bilba as Bilba was to see him. She watched as he jerked his head to look at the front door, as if double-checking something, and then turned back to face her.

“…Can…can I help you?” Bilba finally mustered to ask.

The dwarf regained his bearings and offered a curt bow. “Dwalin, at your service.”

Bilba was taken aback, and somehow found herself uttering the standard, proper reply. “Bilba Baggins at yours.”

As if that settled things, Dwalin saw himself inside and hung his traveling hood about a wooden peg among many; there were plenty of pegs for hanging coats since Bilba was fond of visitors, but she naturally was only fond of them when she knew who they were and when they were visiting.

Bilba blinked at him. She had half a mind to send this audacious dwarf on his way. What would her neighbors say, a well-to-do hobbit like her having dealings with dwarves? But for some reason when she opened her mouth, what came out was, “It’s high tea time—let me show you to the kitchen.”

Dwalin was stiff and stoic, and mumbled a hasty thanks before following Bilba. She was in a daze watching a dwarf, in her very own kitchen, slurp from her very own tea cup with his soiled boots staining her very own heirloom rug. This had to be a dream, she allowed herself to think. She was woken to reality when there was yet another knock at the door.

Gandalf for sure this time, Bilba thought. He can help clear this whole mess up.

But lo and behold it was not Gandalf, and you can imagine how befuddled poor Bilba was to see that it was another dwarf.

She was met again with a surprised expression, similar to her own. This dwarf glanced her up and down before collecting himself, bowing, and saying “Balin, at your service.”

Bilba quite forgot her manners this time and said, “Thank you,” which is not at all the polite way to respond.

Balin shuffled his feet before deciding to enter, then up went a hood on a peg next to the other. Bilba was feeling faint from all the excitement. _Two_ dwarves? This had to be Gandalf’s doing she was sure of it, what with his talk of adventures the other day. If he ever decided to show up she would give him a piece of her mind about what she thought of his poor taste in jokes. Dwalin called out, and she motioned to Balin the direction he should follow to reach the kitchen. Once his bobbing beard turned the corner, she rested her head against the wall of her hole and closed her eyes. There’s no way the dwarves came all this way without another hobbit noticing. She was sure she provided enough fuel for the Shire grapevine for weeks to come. Hobbits love to gossip, though they wouldn’t ever admit to it in those terms; to them it was “keeping up with current happenings.”

Another knock came at the door, but Bilba had come to expect it and half-expected it to be another dwarf. She was wrong; it was another _two_ dwarves.

These two dwarves were similarly surprised, but offered their greeting nonetheless. “Fili and Kili at your service!”

She had had enough time to gather her wits to give an appropriate reply. “And Bilba Baggins at yours!”

“Well this is astonishing,” the one named Kili grinned. “I never knew there were women in your trade.”

What trade he assumed she was in, Bilba hadn’t the slightest idea. But before she had a chance to ask or feel insulted, Fili and Kili popped their hoods on pegs and made their way to the commotion in the kitchen.

This was ridiculous and borderline absurd. But Bilba somehow found herself following Fili and Kili and taking orders for drinks and snacks. Between all of her dashing from her pantries to the kitchen, there had been several more knocks upon the door. Each time it was more dwarves. Now Ori, Dori, Nori, Oin, and Gloin were here to join the throng, all of them at her service and her at theirs. She bustled about arranging their comfort as the dwarves babbled amongst themselves like old friends. Bilba was tired of their shrewd glances, terrible table manners, and lack of “please and thank you,” so at the next knock she felt her temper rise.

Her shock was beginning to give way to indignant anger, and she marched to her door with a flushing face and fisted hands, and jolted it open with a harsh tug. Perhaps it was a little too harsh, because the unsuspecting dwarves on the other side all toppled and landed in a heap. Gandalf stepped around them, looking quite pleased with himself. She never thought she’d be as relieved to see a wizard in her home as she was now.

“Gandalf, just what do you think…what are all…why are—“

“I know you must be busy hosting guests, Bilba, but it is rude to leave fresh visitors unwelcomed,” Gandalf interjected.

He was right, of course, so she helped the dwarves up, each one pledging their services to her in turn, Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur.

The final dwarf she helped looked agitated, and rightly so for being at the bottom and underneath Bombur, who was rather large. This was a very important dwarf, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King of the Mountain, and he did not appreciate being squashed and was feeling rather haughty and not in the mood to offer a lowly hobbit his service.

“Bilba Baggins, at your service,” Bilba offered. She received another look of surprise that she hardly took notice of, being conditioned to them by now. However she did notice how displeased Thorin was concerning his less than ideal entry, and she began to apologize profusely. She looked so worried and concerned that Thorin couldn’t help but grumble, “Pray don’t mention it,” and his frown dissipated.    

One of the dwarves cleared his throat. “Ms. Baggins, if you don’t mind me asking, how did a lady such as yourself end up in your line of work?”

This was the second time a dwarf had referenced her nonexistent profession, so Bilba had a retort at the ready.

“I’ll have you know, master dwarf—Bofur, was it?—that I bear the respected name of ‘Baggins,’ and am therefore under no occupation of any sort, other than being the sole titleholder and resident of Bag End.”

The four dwarves exchanged questioning murmurs, and Thorin stepped forward with a mighty air, casting an accusatory glare at Gandalf. “Do you mean to say that you are _not_ a burglar then?”

Bilba’s cheeks pinched and pinked, why, a burglar! She had never felt so affronted in all her life! And she trembled trying to find words to say, but her mouth merely wagged and babbled out nonsense. All the excitement of the day was getting to her. “I think I need to sit for a bit,” Bilba said before politely retiring to the parlor in her armchair.

At this point the dwarves that had been clustered in the kitchen all bounded into the hall to pay their cents on the matter. Talk broke out all at once about the dangers of the quest, it being no place for a lady, and besides they needed a professional burglar not some unknown novice. They thought their voices low and secretive, but dwarves are always louder than they mean to be and Bilba heard every word. She sunk deep into the cushions and did not pretend to understand any of what they were saying about “quests.” She also tried not to worry about her mangled doilies, trampled carpets, and emptying pantries. Confound those dwarves and confusticate their dwarvish business! Bilba was all the more flustered by it. Burglar, indeed! Although part of her, perhaps the Took side, wanted to join them and their adventures and treasure hunts.    

 “I think she’ll just be a distraction, in more ways than one if you feel me,” Dwalin said.

“Now how can _that_ be a distraction? It’s a contribution in my book,” Kili confessed with a wink.

“This could be one of the most venerated journeys in all of dwarvish history! We shouldn’t take any unnecessary risks with our path already being perilous enough!” said Dori.  

“Beggars can’t be choosers—we need a burglar, lady or not,” Balin reasoned.

“She looks more like a housewife than a burglar,” said Gloin. The other dwarves laughed aloud and nodded in agreement.

Bilba puffed at this remark, for it made her sound old and dowdy. She might have reached fifty years, but for hobbits fifty was a perfectly normal age to just begin familial proceedings, certainly not old enough to be designated as a “housewife.” Bilba was still at her prime, though slightly matured from her more mischievous tween ages between twenty and thirty-three. It was needless to say that she did not appreciate what these dwarvish men were implying. Her Tookish side would not have this, and perhaps this is what led her to put her foot in.

She heaved herself out of her armchair and did one of the most Tookish things she had done in a long while—interrupt a conversation without excusing herself.

“I don’t catch your intention with all this ‘burgling’ business, but I am right in believing that you think I am no good. Well, I was skeptical when you all appeared on my doorstep, but I treated you with hospitality and let you into my home, when no dwarf has stepped foot in here before. What I’m getting at is I’m willing to adapt, so tell me what you want done and I will try it. Why, my great-great-great-grand-uncle Bullroarer Took once fought in the—”

Gloin waved this aside, “Yes, yes, but that was long ago! We’re talking about _you_ and _now_. I can’t imagine this lass traipsing about in a dragon horde, skipping past flames and wielding daggers.”

To be honest, Bilba couldn’t imagine this either, but she already picked her stance and wasn’t about to back down now. Before she could say anything though, Gandalf frowned at her till she shut her mouth with a snap. He had been silent throughout this and let the dwarves have their say, but he didn’t think he could bear their stubbornness any longer.

“Did you or did you not ask me to find the fourteenth member of your company? I say that it’s Bilba, but if you don’t want her, go off on your venture with thirteen and face all the bad luck you like.” He scowled at all the dwarves, daring them to argue, but they all remained silent. “Then it’s settled. Bilba is your burglar, or a burglar she will be when the time comes. She has a great deal more to offer than any of you (even herself) might guess.”

Before anyone could press Gandalf to explain himself further, he exclaimed that he was hungry from traveling and would love a good supper and a glass of red wine if you’d please, Bilba. The dwarves chimed in with similar sentiments, even the ones that had been snacking, and they shooed Bilba off to prepare something, venison if she had any.

Still feeling slightly out of sorts with the burgling matter, Bilba blinked around at her pantry, not exactly sure what she had gotten herself into. All she knew was that these dwarves were strumming her last nerve with their rude behavior, and she muttered under her breath while cutting carrots for a stew. She definitely wasn’t going to waste one of her best recipes on them, so a simple fish soup would have to suffice. Some rosemary rolls and apple slices would complement the meal nicely, she mused.

Bilba had just finished braising the fish to add to the pot when raucous laughter erupted from her parlor, and she just shook her head. It wasn’t that she wanted to join those ruffians, but they were completely excluding her! The hostess! And were not making a _single_ effort to assist her in _any_ shape or form! Dropping a bag of potatoes and sending them sprawling every which way was the straw that broke her composure.

“Curse and bebother those dwarves! Why don’t they lend me a hand?” Bilba slapped a hand across her mouth, ashamed and hoping that none of them had heard. Apparently they had, for Balin and Dwalin swiftly appeared and began picking up potatoes and dicing them crudely. Bilba squeaked out a “thank you,” getting grunts in return. It was uncomfortable working together, and nothing was said other than directions, but with two extra pairs of hands dinner was ready in no time flat. The smell of the fish soup wafted through the air, coaxing drool out of the dwarves’ mouths—just because it wasn’t one of Bilba’s best recipes doesn’t mean that it wasn’t worthy of a red ribbon or two.

“Alright everyone, line up here to serve yourselves and gather at the dining table!” Bilba called out. She needn’t have said it twice, for in a flash the dwarves were all jumbled together, elbowing each other out of the way. Of course Thorin went first without question, but the others were performing small feats of sabotage to be a dwarf ahead in the procession. Bilba laughed behind her hand at this and assured them that there was enough for all. There was nothing that could put a hobbit in a better mood than seeing enthusiasm for their cooking.

Bilba waited for the dwarves before serving a bowl of stew for herself and Gandalf, then carried them both to her dining room. She was intrigued to see that all the dwarves were waiting for her (albeit anxiously) to start eating. The gesture touched her, but with the multitude of furtive glares that were being cast at Gandalf she knew that it must have been a firm recommendation of his. She thanked them sincerely nonetheless, and took a seat between Bofur and Dori. Everyone began to reach for spoons and to toss around the basket of rosemary rolls, but something about the table setting seemed off to Bilba…and she just couldn’t place her finger on what. Then it hit her. She had guests over and no flowers on the table! Oh, how obtuse of her!

“Wait, wait!”

Everyone panicked—soup was sputtered, curses were thrown, daggers were reached for. Bilba didn’t catch the rest of the commotion though, for she had already dashed out the front door to her garden and furiously began picking mayflowers. Luckily she had just pruned them that morning! The flowers held a special meaning of welcome, and it was her signature to have a bouquet of them for when she had guests over to dine. To not would be an insult for all! She had only enough for a modest vase-full, but the vase was a crystal one of her grandmother’s so she deemed that it added character. Bilba primly returned, mayflowers in hand, and almost dropped them all when she saw the scene before her.

The dwarves were all in a tizzy. Thorin was barking orders, others were coughing and hacking while yelling about being poisoned, and weapons were at the ready as they all shouted “what happened to that dratted hobbit?” During all this, Gandalf was quietly sipping on soup and smiling as he looked on. She gave him an incredulous stare before hitching up her skirt and making a loud show of plopping the vase onto the center of the table. All noise ceased at once and everyone’s eyes snapped to her. Startled, Bilba was now very conscious of the soil on her hands and tried to rub it away.

“I…I brought in some flowers from my garden. Now that the table is in order you can return to your dinners,” she said weakly.

Bombur was happy to oblige, but stopped short when no one else followed suit.

Thorin looked moderately enraged, but he leveled his voice the best he could. “You shriek about halting the meal, leading us all to believe there must be a plot of poison afoot, then you vanish without another word and reappear with…daisies?”

“Mayflowers,” Bilba unwittingly corrected.

Thorin closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. “Fine, mayflowers then.” He took a deep breath before continuing in a severe tone. “You do recognize the alarm caused by your unnecessary outburst, do you not?”

Heat pricked Bilba’s cheeks. A company of hobbits would understand her “outburst,” and in fact join her with a few choice exclamations of their own. It would seem that this was not so with a company of dwarves; they are much more on their guard and have greater things to fear than an absent bouquet.

“I…I apologize. I wanted to make you feel properly welcomed.” Bilba was hoping that this would soften their glares, but it did nothing of the sort.

“How are we to expect a burglar to burgle when she has episodes like this?!” challenged Dwalin. He was of course directing this to Gandalf.

“Nonsense, Master Dwalin. Bilba is merely excited, that is all.”

“What if she is to get ‘excited’ while right under the dragon’s nose? Her girlish squeals would awaken the beast and send us all to fiery graves!” Oin piped up.

Bilba was feeling her knees give way, what with the mention of a “dragon” and a terrible demise. Just what sort of adventure is this? And had she really agreed to it?

Gandalf sighed. “We’ll set this straight. Bilba, will you do any screaming of any sort around the dragon?”

Bilba, wide-eyed, shook her head, curls flicking across her face as she did so.

Gandalf stared them all down to ensure no one questioned her. “There, see? Now let’s put this behind us and enjoy the delightful meal Bilba has prepared.”

Most of the dwarves were not convinced, but they begrudgingly sat down and had their moods greatly lightened once they tasted the stew.

“It’s especially good when you crumble the rolls in it!” Ori guaranteed.

“Na, I prefer to dip,” Nori said, drowning his bread in the creamy broth.

Though they all enjoyed the meal, Bilba did not enjoy their manners. She was absolutely disgusted and downright repulsed by the all the smacking, slurping, chugging, and elbows-on-the-table resting. And not even a napkin in the lap! She pretended to not mind in the slightest, but when a stray piece of half-chewed trout landed on her hand, she visibly shuddered.

Her patience was tested all the more even after dinner was finished. Not a dredge of soup remained (though the apples were untouched) and only crumbs littered the table. It was then that she mentioned “washing up,” and the dwarves all shared mischievous grins.

“Oh don’t fret, lass! We’ll take care of that for ya!” Bofur said, stifling giggles.

Silverware soaring through the sky, bowls balancing on heads, plates cascading from the rafters to land in expectant hands—it was enough to put Bilba over the edge! She fretted and pleaded at them to be more careful, but they all just burst into song, the nasty little buggers. They actually carried a catchy tune, but Bilba was far too distressed to care to join in, for the words dealt with smashing her bottles, chipping her plates, and a bunch of other horrid vandalisms.

They finished, with clean dishes piled high and nary a scratch in sight. Bilba had tugged her hair into knots and was relieved to see they didn’t carried out the horrible deeds they sang of. The dwarves were all laughing heartily and admiring their handiwork, but Bilba simply sniffed at them.

“Ah, come now Missus Boggins! Think of this as repayment for the fright you gave us earlier,” Kili teased.

Bilba flushed at this and mumbled that she supposed it was fair if you took that into consideration. Still, she wasn’t quite ready to forgive their unsightly table manners.

Thorin cleared his throat to call everyone at attention. He stood tall and proud, and Bilba shrunk under his steeled gaze. “We have dark business to attend to. Gandalf gathered us all here at the hafling’s for a reason, so let’s hear what he has to say.”

Gandalf bowed his head reverently. “Bilba, if you could fetch a light for us please. I have something I need to show you all.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for checking out my story and a super special thank you to everyone who left Kudos and comments! I super appreciate them, because it keeps me motivated. Now that school has started back for me, I'll need that now more than ever, haha. Anyway, here's the next installment! It's actually pretty short, mostly because I wanted to get what I had written posted since I'm not sure when I'll have time to write more. Please let know what you think!

Gandalf unfurled a map, and all the dwarves crowded in close, Bilba especially, for she held a deep fondness for maps. She would often go on walking holidays to chart out trails and roads. In particular, there is a certain map of hers Bilba is quite proud of, it being a pretty accurate depiction of the Shire going as far as Frogmorton. But the map before her was much more expansive than anything she could have imagined, and her feet ached just thinking of the walking holiday it took to make it.

Thorin however was less than impressed and he heaved a sigh. “Gandalf, I know these lands! I can direct my company just fine through the mountains.”

“Ah, but there is something you are missing, Thorin. There is text on here that speaks of a secret entrance into Erebor, and I believe you all would benefit from that.”

Bilba was dancing from one foot to the other, genuinely excited about the intricacies the map entailed and the unbelievable opportunity of a secret door. It was just like the stories her mother would tell her!

“Aye, this is very promising! This decreases our chances of alerting the dragon by tenfold,” Balin determined.

Bilba’s heart sunk; she had forgotten about that detail. Deep in thought, she kicked up a heel to rest behind her other calf and absentmindedly reached down to twirl the hair on her foot, a habit she never seemed to have grown out of. Bilba let the surrounding conversation wash over her as she waded through her own thoughts. Just what did she think she was doing? Inviting wizards to tea? Hosting a house-full of dwarves? Agreeing to be a burglar on some outlandish treasure hunt? It’s not as if she could actually _go_. It had been a long time since Bilba had played pretend, and she got so caught up in the moment that she forgot to acknowledge that that’s what this was for her: just pretend.

Thorin had already called her name several times before Bilba heard him. “I _said_ , Ms. Baggins, that I would like to know what our burglar thought of the matter.”

Bilba leapt up, Thorin eye’s boring into her. The foot she had been toying with snapped back to the floor immediately, and she straightened herself to the best of her abilities. Bilba faltered to find something to say, not knowing what the matter was that she should speak on. Heat rose to her face as she mumbled a few “ums” and “wells,” but nothing of consequence followed. Why oh why hadn’t she been paying attention?

Thorin gave a great roll of his eyes and an exasperated groan. “Gandalf, you cannot _seriously_ expect us to hire this woman. She is not fit to join our company, and I will not have her.”

This stung a good deal, and Bilba noticed one or two of the others wincing in sympathy. Without hesitation, the Baggins in her decided to seize the reigns from the Took; the game was over.

Gandalf was about to state Bilba’s case yet again, but Bilba held up a hand. Swallowing the choking in her throat, she faced Thorin. “Of course you’re right. Why, I don’t know the first thing about this venture of yours, and everything I do hear makes me want to go less and less. I am not made for dragon fighting and horde plundering, and therefore I am probably not made for burgling either. So I can’t say that I’d like to join you, but I thank you for your offer.”

It all rolled off her tongue smoothly enough, and she assumed the dwarves would take it in stride as she curtseyed for added respect. But all the dwarves shockingly looked hurt. Their beards positively drooped, and Bofur and Balin even had eyes downcast. Though they all hadn’t necessarily _wanted_ Bilba for the job, and wouldn’t imagine selecting her on their own accord, it wounded them that she didn’t desire to be a part of their company.

Thorin’s harsh features softened from the blow of her words. He spoke in bewilderment. “Ms. Baggins, this is not a mere expedition to plunder. It is a journey, a righteous one, to bring justice to the dwarves of Erebor. We set out to reclaim our homeland that was wrongfully taken from us, stolen and kept by the terrible dragon Smaug. I wish you to see the honor behind our intentions, and understand the weight of our offer before you cast it aside.”

Thorin went on for a good while, citing tales of dwarven bravery during the dark days under the mountain. As he spoke, the cold, lightless coals that Bilba saw as Thorin’s eyes became warming gleeds lit by the embers of his passion—the passion for his people. And that is a flame that does not easily die out. Bilba was moved by this, and she felt a great swell of emotion for Thorin and his dwarves. She knew what she should do.

“I have been a giddy fool this whole time, Thorin Oakenshield, and I hope you can forgive me for it. This is not a game of pretend I can imagine and wish away at will—this is real, and real to you. Your adventure is the grandest invitation I have ever received…and I think that might be the problem of it all. I’m a hobbit, you see, and hobbits are not meant for grand things. I would help you if I could, but I’m not sure that I can.”

A somber silence ensued. No one seemed willing to break it, not even Gandalf after all of his goadings and persuasions.  

“Well,” Bilba exhaled, trying to find a cheerful tone, “you are all spending the night, I assume? And even if you weren’t I would insist. The guestrooms are all along the corridor to your left, but in the meantime please enjoy the parlor. I’ll be in my bedroom if you need anything.” And Bilba took her leave with a convincing yawn, feigning drowsiness to leave the dwarves to themselves, for they were itching to openly discuss her and she thought it more tactful to not be present for it.

Bilba left her door cracked open before crawling onto her bed and leaning against her headboard. This was an extraordinary day for her, and ones even more so were bound to have happened had she accepted Thorin and Company’s proposition. Not willing to reflect on this, Bilba occupied her mind and picked up an embroidery hoop from her nightstand, cramming details onto a cloth napkin she had already finished embellishing. As she stitched, muffled murmurs trickled out of the parlor and she perked up her ears in spite of herself, straining to catch a hold of the conversation in vain.

Bilba didn’t realize she was dozing until she awoke to the sound of singing. It was clearly the dwarves, but this tune was much different from the wash-up song they regaled her with earlier. This song was deep and rumbling, originating from the depths of sturdy bellies. Throaty and unwavering it resonated within every inch of her being. It sounded ominous, but there was a lingering promise tracing the notes. She understood immediately what the dwarves were doing upon feeling the same passion she had seen in Thorin’s eyes: the dwarves were telling their history. Bilba felt the love for mountains and for clever craft, the jealousy for fine things, the pride of an ancient people, the fear of drawing doom, the desolation of a dragon’s fire, the despair of a lost home, and the desire to take it back. It was to this that Bilba slipped into a fitful sleep, riddled with strange dreams.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello! As you can see, I'm trying to get a chapter updated each weekend. Thanks for the kudos and the subs!! Every little bit of motivation counts. ;) I'd like some help with the tags though since I feel like I'm lacking in that area. If anyone has any tag recommendations please let me know! Alrighty, hope you enjoy and thanks for checking out my fic!

The following morning dawned quietly. So much so that when Bilba roused she was under the impression that the unexpected party of yesterday was solely an extension of her dreams. This theory was proven all the more plausible, being there was not a single dwarf in sight and her parlor was preserved in a perfectly orderly condition. She even checked the guest rooms, but the beds were prim and prosy and not a pillow was out of place. They had left without a trace, without saying goodbye. An empty feeling overcame Bilba.

She patted her cheeks chidingly. “You’ve made up your mind, silly girl. Besides, they left without you easily enough,” she told herself. And with this consoling thought, Bilba set about to begin her morning routine. First on the list: dusting the mantelpiece. It was with shock and relief that there she found a letter addressed to one “Bilba Baggins,” signed “Thorin and Company,” and written on her monogrammed stationary of course.

Bilba pealed back the wax seal, and hesitated only slightly before reading on:

_Thorin and Company to Ms. Baggins greeting! For your hospitality our sincerest thanks. This letter is indicative that our offer for the position of “burglar” still stands, and the option to accept or decline is at your discretion. The terms and conditions of the venture are as follows:_

Bilba’s discerning eyes scanned the proceeding legalities of the arrangement, and nodded, deeming it agreeable and fair. She would be lying to say she wasn’t impressed with how official they could make a contract for a burglar.

_Thinking it unnecessary to disturb your esteemed repose, we have proceeded in advance to make requisite preparations, and shall await your respected person at the Green Dragon Inn, Bywater, up until **11 a.m. sharp**. We trust that your punctuality or lack thereof will express your decision, and we will honor it accordingly. _

_We remain yours deeply,_

_Thorin & Co. _

Bilba’s heart quickened while rereading the letter, thrice for good measure, as she twisted the hair on her toes. There was no mistaking the tremble in her hands. But they were not trembling out of fear, anxiety, or anything of the like, oh no—Bilba was exhilarated.

Whisking around, Bilba checked her clock for the time.

10:50.

She would have to run.

Perhaps it was the stress of the split-second decision which pitted her rationale and instinct against one another. In a pinch such as that, it was always instinct that won over, and it goes without saying that her instinct was rather Tookish. But to the end of her days, Bilba could never remember how she found herself outside, with only the most vital of possessions in tow, cramming a biscuit in her mouth and pushing her keys into the Gaffer’s hands as she ran as fast as her furry feet could carry her down the road. No hobbit had ever seen Bilba in such a state, or any other hobbit for that matter, and they all craned their necks through windows and around doors to get a look. For once, Bilba did not take notice; she ignored their hollers and questions of her sanity. She only focused on remembering to breathe as she huffed and puffed for well over a mile, leaving baffled and befuddled neighbors in her wake.

Bilba reached the inn on the stroke of eleven, and she realized how seriously the dwarves took their statement on “punctuality” upon seeing them packed on their ponies and ready to depart at that very instant. She tried her hardest to maintain some decorum, but was too exhausted to not double-over and gasp for air while they addressed her.

Balin had been the lookout. “Bravo! I saw you ambling towards us from some distance off, but with your skirts bouncing about I almost mistook you for a nanny off to hear the morning natter.”

Everyone laughed at Bilba’s expense and she reddened, though no one noticed for her cheeks were red enough as it was. She glanced down sheepishly at her skirts; in her defense, she didn’t even own a pair of trousers.

“Honestly, we didn’t think you’d come! You seemed so made up with your mind last night,” Kili chimed in.

“Gandalf insisted on us leaving the letter, and even fussed at us to put it ‘just so’ on the mantelpiece. But I suppose it did its work if you’re here now,” Dori shrugged.

Thorin looked down, high and mighty on the tallest pony. “If bringing along a woman is going to lead to this much wasted time we might as well cease our journey before it begins. You got here on the edge of a knife, Ms. Baggins.”

“I’m awfully sorry, but I made it here as quick as I could. I didn’t get your note until 10:50 to be precise.”

“Don’t be precise,” said Dwalin, “Now up ya get and off we go.”

Bilba froze. Up? They couldn’t possibly expect her to ride atop such a towering, belligerent beast! Bilba took a step back, shaking her head.

“I am much more content with both feet on the ground, I assure you! I can keep up just fine without a pony,” Bilba rushed to say.

All the dwarves looked at each other and rolled their eyes, knowing how winded Bilba already was just from running such a short distance.

“I don’t believe you have a choice in the matter, Ms. Baggins. As of now you are under my management. You are riding that pony,” Thorin narrowed his eyes sternly, and motioned for Oin and Gloin to help her up onto the smallest steed.

Oin and Gloin grabbed Bilba’s arms to hoist her, but she gave out a squeak of protest. “Ruffians! This is no way to treat a lady!” Oin and Gloin unhanded her and impatiently looked at Thorin for direction.

“And what does her ladyship propose?” Thorin mocked.

“Well, I am perfectly capable of using my own arms and legs, I just…need a little boost is all,” Bilba said.

Thorin then had Oin and Gloin offer up their hands as a stepping stool, which Bilba stood on in order to swing a leg over her pony—very difficult work in a skirt. Blushing and hoping she hadn’t let any of her unmentionables peek out, Bilba murmured a genuine thanks to Oin and Gloin who were already halfway onto their own ponies.

The world swirled around her as she looked to the ground. Bilba clutched tightly to her pony’s mane and squinted her eyes shut, wondering if it was still too late to turn back.

Thorin shouted that it was time for everyone to move out, that is, if it was in accordance to her ladyship’s design. Not appreciating his derisive tone, Bilba nonetheless humored him and nodded, and a chorus of snickering erupted.

Bilba pouted out a lip and decided to not speak to any of them for a while. For having been invited on this confounded journey, she wasn’t feeling very welcomed. Concentrating on not sliding off the saddle, Bilba squeezed her legs tightly around her pony’s middle, clamping on for dear life. After she felt like she could not possibly hold herself this way for much longer, she heard a chortle beside her.

“Unless you’re aiming to squeeze all the air out of her, you might want to let up a wee bit,” Bofur suggested.

“I’m _aiming_ to not fall off of this thing, master dwarf,” Bilba replied huffily.

A laugh. “Oh, I promise you, you’ll stay put—though the sliding around takes some getting used to. Her name is Myrtle, by the way. Talking to them always helps,” he said with a wink.

“Oh,” Bilba blinked, not expecting such well-intentioned advice, “thank you, I’ll try that then.”

Bofur skipped his pony a little bit ahead. Bilba then glanced around before cooing a few encouraging whispers in Myrtle’s ear, saying her name soothingly. It seemed to definitely have some effect on Myrtle, as she didn’t trot as jarringly before—though this might have been due in part to Bilba having loosened her legs from their death-grip. Bilba was immensely pleased with herself, and hardly minded the dwarves pointing and giggling in her direction.

Now that she was able to relax and take in her surroundings, Bilba was painfully aware of how indecent this situation must appear to an onlooker. _One_ hobbit _lady_ traversing with _thirteen_ dwarven _men_? This would be her undoing! She’d be finished if someone saw her! Which was bound to happen soon since they were on an open road. Bilba fretted for just a moment before thinking of a clever, yet undesirable, solution.

“Pardon me, master dwarf?” she directed this to Dwalin, who was riding nearest to her. He grumbled in response, so Bilba proceeded. “You wouldn’t perchance have a spare hood to offer? I noticed you and all the others wearing them, and I’d like one to match.” For the life of her Bilba couldn’t read him, but a dark-green hood and cloak was thrust at her and she took it gratefully. It was a bit weather-stained and it clashed terribly with the pale blue pattern of her skirt, but she would manage. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but it was enough, no matter how comic she appeared.

Quite suddenly, Gandalf galloped towards them on a white horse, seeming to come out of nowhere and causing everyone to jump in their saddles.

“Greetings, Thorin and Company! That includes you too, Bilba—I am ever so glad you dusted your mantelpiece this morning.” He expertly avoided all demands to know what he was doing here and where he had come from and how exactly he had known of Bilba’s dusting habit. “What a wonderful day to begin an adventure, is it not?” And it was, this they all agreed on. Soon singing and storytelling began, things Bilba loved dearly. She was captivated by the travelling songs the dwarves knew, and found that they were not all that different from ones she grew up with.

Wanting to contribute a ditty of her own, Bilba thought of a simple song for summer days and shaded hills. It went like this:

 

_Sun shining bright aloft,_

_Warming kiss it giveth doth._

_Freckling faces breeze frees,_

_Lie within the cool of trees._

 

Bilba would have gone on for several more phrases, but she stopped short when she noticed all attention on her. Pursing her lips tightly she swallowed the rest of the words. Maybe a hobbit’s songs were not fit for dwarves.  

Bifur garbled something out incoherent and swung his arms about in wild gestures.

“…come again?” Bilba said.

“He said, ‘Don’t stop! Keep going!’” Bombur translated.

Shy from the prompting, Bilba blushed. “Oh no no, that’s fine, I’m quite done.”

They all looked downcast at this. “Unless…you _really_ want me to continue?” she asked unsure.

They nodded firmly.

“It just sounded so lovely!” said Ori with a dreamy gaze.

“Aye, strong and clear,” Oin added. Bilba realized she must have been singing rather loudly when she noticed his ear trumpet resting unused at his side. “Like a hammer testing a gem of the purest sort.”

Though not fully understanding the compliment, Bilba was flattered nonetheless. Maybe dwarves weren’t as disagreeable as she thought. “Well, alright. But you must give me time to think up more words, because I’ve gotten sidetracked you see.”

“You thought up those words yourself, Ms. Baggins?” This time it was Thorin that spoke.

She responded with a yes, not really knowing what else to say.

Thorin gave a nod in return, and turned back to facing the front.

After that exchange, the other dwarves clambered their ponies around Bilba’s and began to press her with requests of what they wanted to hear next. Titles jumbled together before a consensus was reached and they collectively chanted one song name in particular.

“The Ballad of Beleriand!” they all cheered out.

It sounded like gibberish to Bilba, she had never heard of it before, and therefore told them so.

“Never heard of—it’s _legendary_! The type of tale Dwarven history is made of!” Gloin exclaimed, completely flummoxed that all of Middle Earth couldn’t recite it forwards and backwards.

“Hobbits don’t know much of anyone’s history but their own, and even _that_ is sparse,” Bilba confessed.

This provoked an unending barrage of questions from the dwarves, mostly concerning what in fact hobbits did know of dwarves.

“…very little to tell the truth,” Bilba said, bracing herself for what she knew was to come.

“We shall have to remedy that then!” Fili cried out, followed by a chorus of “here here!”

And so for a long while, the dwarves babbled excitedly about ancient battles, successful kings, and honorable deeds of dwarven folk. Bilba listened the best she could, but the onslaught of names and information was too much for her to retain, so she stuck to enjoying the telling and did feel more knowledgeable concerning dwarves, however slightly so.

“We’re stopping for supper in that clearing up ahead,” Thorin said when the stories were dwindling.

Bilba looked around, surprised at the change in surrounding. There were no longer well-kept roads and domesticated land, but overgrown paths and thick trees. How long had they been riding? By the grumble of Bilba’s stomach, for some time. She only had a morsel for elevenses in place of breakfast and second breakfast due to her late start, and no lunch or afternoon tea to speak of! Supper would be greatly welcomed.

The dwarves reached the clearing in the forest and began unpacking the parcels. Bilba wished she could help, but stayed stuck on her pony, not having the faintest idea how to dismount. After clearing her throat a few times to no avail, she finally rallied against her embarrassment to call out for assistance.

The dwarves all stared at her, wriggling in the saddle, and had a good hearty laugh at their unexperienced traveler. Thorin however did not laugh, and he plodded over to Myrtle and pulled at Bilba’s outstretched hand, yanking her off. Ignoring her yelp, Thorin proceeded to catch her and gruffly set her on the ground.

“You could have at least given me warning!” Bilba said crossly.

Thorin sighed. “Just sit over there and out of the way till we are finished unpacking.”

Bilba hesitated, prompting Thorin to groan out what else could be the matter. “I…just thought I could help is all,” she explained.

“You are sitting and nothing more. We cannot trust you to handle the weight of the baggage and have no desire to spoil our supplies,” Thorin said flatly, and took his leave.

Bilba puffed up and made a great, exaggerated motion of taking a seat atop a gnarled root. Gandalf was already there, enjoying a pipe-full of weed. While she steamed, Gandalf tried to console her. “He does mean well, my dear. Fear not, you’ll prove yourself soon enough,” he said between smoke rings.

“Are you always this vague and unhelpful of a wizard?” she grumbled. Gandalf only giggled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what'd you guys think? I'd love to know! 
> 
> Also, fun fact: I named The Ballad of Beleriand in reference to the actual battle of Beleriand that was a huge triumph for the dwarves since they were the only ones able to stand against the dragon Glaurung. Cool stuff!
> 
> I also hoped you liked Bilba's diddy-it was a little poem of my own, so that was fun to do. :D


	4. Chapter 4

Dinner was a lovely medley of potatoes, carrots, and pork, seasoned with thyme. It was particularly delightful, and Bilba finished her share in half a minute.

“My compliments to the chef,” Bilba sighed while patting her stomach. “Are there any seconds to be had?”

Bombur blushed and twiddled his thumbs. “Unfortunately, no. I made only just enough…to ration what food we have,” he said, looking wistfully at the empty pot. Bilba followed his gaze and wore a similar expression. Maybe there were some tidbits sticking to the bottom that she could salvage into a few more mouthfuls? Checking certainly wouldn’t hurt…

Her thoughts must have conveyed themselves perfectly on her face, for the dwarves all laughed and teased her.  

“I’ve only ever seen Bombur eye a pot like that!” Bofur claimed, his statement being met with an elbow from his disgruntled brother.

“Well, I missed out on all my meals today—besides elevenses, that is—and I can’t imagine I made up for it with what little I just had,” Bilba defended.

The dwarves all grew quiet, pondering over what Bilba had meant.

“How much do you eat exactly?” asked Nori skeptically.

“The standard six square meals a day,” Bilba shrugged. This led to much sputtering and gasping, and they all sounded so outlandish that Bilba couldn’t help but feel that she had said something wrong. Perhaps dwarves were more conservative with their larders?

“It’s…quite normal for a hobbit, you see. I suppose dwarves…forgo some of the six then?” Bilba suggested meekly.  

The dwarves just gaped at her. Apparently they did, judging by their disbelief.

“ _Some_? Try _half_ ,” said Dwalin with a derisive snort.

Complaints and concerns burst forth all around.

“We’re going to be run dry by this blasted hobbit and her endless stomach!” Gloin said with a groan. And many similar things were said to an extent.

Bilba flushed deeply. “Nonsense! I will adjust my eating habits, of course! Honestly, it’s not as if I lack all self-control.” Though she didn’t very much like the idea of eating only three meals a day for a prolonged period, she’s never been above making sacrifices.

“I dunno, Missus Boggins, you were looking rather taken in by that pot,” Kili grinned and wriggled a brow.

“It does have an alluring figure, I suppose,” Fili joined, drawing suggestive pot-shaped curves with his hands.

“I’m tellin ya, _just_ like Bombur, she is! Match made in heaven,” Bofur assured, which earned him yet another elbow to his side.    

“That’s enough,” Thorin said standing up, cutting off all conversation and snide remarks, “Refrain from harassing our burglar any longer—if the fattest of us can survive off of what we eat, then so can Ms. Baggins.”

Bilba shook her face in her hands, unable to handle these dwarves and their rude insinuations. Where was some nice hobbit company when you needed it? “Incorrigible, simply incorrigible,” she muttered.

“How about some music, Thorin?” Gandalf interjected.

That changed the mood entirely. All thoughts of the insatiable Bilba Baggins escaped them, and they were occupied solely by the excitement of a symphony. The dwarves leapt up and scurried about, grabbing for bags and rifling through their contents.

Soon enough Fili and Kili returned with fiddles at their side, followed by Dori, Nori, and Ori who each held a flute firmly in their grasp. Bombur procured a drum and Bifor and Bofur two clarinets, while Dwalin and Balin struggled under viols as big as themselves. Even Thorin cradled a green cloth swathed around something. Oin and Gloin seemed to be the only ones of the company to be without an instrument, Oin explaining that his ears made it difficult to play and Gloin mumbling an excuse about never learning how. But Bilba, being without an instrument herself, was all too glad to add more members to the audience.  

Then, not without pomp and ceremony, Thorin unfurled the green cloth to reveal a beautiful golden harp, humming to be played. The strings were of gold as well, finely spun to form delicate threads so that just breathing on them would cause them to shiver; it would take a nimble hand to play them prettily. Had it been anyone less skillful, the harp would have plunked out a cacophonous mess. But it was in good care, and it was with a practiced air that Thorin curled his fingers around the strings and strummed them like Bilba would run fingers across a flower petal.

All it took was one note, wavering in the night air, to conduct the other dwarves to start their playing. Thorin held the melody, and everyone else supported him with varying harmonies that all somehow flowed together.

Not unlike the other night when they all sang, Bilba was mesmerized by the splendor and looked on in awe. It was a stark contrast to hear such an elegant concerto played by this group of dwarves; from the stories they imparted, they painted themselves as warriors, strong, proud, and resilient. But there was something softer about them, something soft in their hearts that allowed them to craft this beauty. Bilba could see this softness particularly in Thorin’s playing. His touch was gentle, and his eyes glowed with a light that danced upon the gold of his harp; perhaps it was the other way around, the harp’s gleams in the firelight being reflected in Thorin’s eyes. Though the latter was more likely, Bilba would not be swayed; it was his eyes that glowed, the very gleeds she saw when he spoke of his Erebor in her parlor.

Thorin looked up from his harp and at Bilba, forcing her to return from her daze and remember her place, darting her eyes away. In an attempt to appear occupied, she smoothed down her skirt to rid them of any wrinkles that she imagined must be there. But she could still feel Thorin looking at her, and finally he spoke up with something rather unexpected that took Bilba by surprise.

“Sing for us, Ms. Baggins.”

And how could she refuse? Not when she was entranced by the magic before her, captured by the sound. It was with only slight reservation that Bilba stood up in the center of their orchestra. Before she knew or could even think about what she was doing, the words poured out of her from a source of inspiration nestled deep within.

 

_And lo the ever climbing stone,_

_A mountain called, made into home,_

_Carved and hewn with dwarven care,_

_Filled with ore both fine and fair._

_The brightest jewel atop the crown,_

_It bested kingdoms so renowned,_

_Legend twas and is to come,_

_For dragon fire will succumb_

_To battle cries of rightful rage,_

_Beaten down by those he plagued._

_The throne returned to honor just,_

_Freed from fearsome dragon lust,_

_The King will stand in land reclaimed_

_And ever more will nobly reign._

 

Slow and solemn she sang, with hums interspersed throughout the lyrics to act as a stepladder for the next verse. Such sweet music they made, it was beyond all earthly description. As they performed, Gandalf’s smoke rings circled the air above them, twining in the tendrils of tree branches, and casted quivering shadows that moved in time with the lick of the campfire’s flames. It did not seem real, and in fact they were all so entranced that they quite forgot themselves and for the longest time did nothing but continue to dwell in this ethereal stupor.

All music ceased however when they realized they were shrouded in darkness, and they shivered to leave their reverie for reality.

“Oin! Gloin! The two of you were meant to tend to the fire! Get your tinderboxes and set it once more,” the other dwarves said with clicking tongues. Bilba knew they were shaking their heads enough to make their beards wag, though she could not see this to affirm it as true.

After much scuffling and swearing, a blaze was made and it lit up the clearing immediately. Bilba started when she realized she had been staring at Thorin, though sightlessly due to the dark, and him at her. They seemed to be closer than she remembered.

“Those were some choice words, Ms. Baggins,” Thorin said.

“Oh, were they?” Bilba blinked, having quite forgotten what she sang. She hoped she hadn’t gotten too carried away with herself.

“I would hear those words again once we reach the Lonely Mountain. They will do Erebor’s halls justice, and will be the ballad of our victory.”

Bilba’s heart beat dangerously, panicked that she could honest to goodness not recall anything that she sang, not a single stanza or even a note, strain her mind though she did. Not wanting to disappoint Thorin with this truth, Bilba opted to appease him instead and she nodded earnestly, causing her curls to bob worse than the dwarves’ beards. Though she hoped against hope that Thorin would forget all about that bothersome song when the time came.

Aherming and aheming, Thorin stalked off, muttering his gratitude and thanking Bilba for her vocal contribution in their performance. Bilba was just about to commend Thorin’s mastery of the harp, but was prevented due to the commotion that arose.  

“Oy, where’s the wizard?” Nori blurted. Everyone stood at attention and looked around: behind trees, under ponies and parcels, and within any other nook and cranny someone of magic could escape to.

“He’s gone, the blighter!” all the dwarves yelled out, cursing his name and stomping their feet. “He’s abandoned us!”

Only wisps of smoke remained to remind them that Gandalf had been there at all; he really seemed to have disappeared. While they all bemoaned their misfortune, they came to the conclusion that sleep was the only thing for them at the moment. So they all shared a round of goodnights and yawned while they patted down their sleeping pallets. Each attended to his own except for Ori and Nori who had Dori to fuss over them; Ori didn’t seem to mind much but Nori scowled and stewed as Dori made extensive efforts to find the flattest of ground.

“Your pallet’s rolled up in the bag yonder, Ms. Baggins,” Balin said, motioning his head to indicate where she should look.

“The tent as well?”

Balin turned to her, very puzzled. “…tent?”

“Well, so as to separate myself from you all during the night, you see. It would be improper otherwise,” Bilba professed. She assumed everyone, even dwarves, followed this sort of etiquette.

Balin simply stared. “Ms. Baggins, I assure you, a tent won’t be necessary amongst us. Besides which, we don’t even have one in our stock. Our roof is naught but the stars.”

Bilba would have appreciated the poetry in this had it not been so disagreeable in a literal sense. She was about to offer up a convincing rhetoric on why backtracking to the nearest tent craftsman would be to the benefit of all, but Dwalin, who had been listening in, stopped her with a sound opinion of his own.

“Quit your griping and go to sleep! By my beard, what difference does a tent make! Go far off to the corner if you wish or sleep atop the tress—just leave us in peace!”

That shut Bilba’s mouth nice and tight, and she promptly retrieved her pallet, nudging it the farthest edge of the jumble of dwarves. “No manners, the lot of them,” she muttered under her breath. One of these days she would teach them the ancient lore of decent behavior. No tent, indeed! A delicate flower such as herself had no right to be sleeping exposed, to a horde of dwarven men no less!

As uncomfortable as she was with the situation, it was no surprise to her that she could not fall asleep. So stiff and wide-eyed she lay pressed to the farthest corner of her pallet, trying to push away the dwarves’ snores and her concerns of impropriety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, I was able to get another chapter out this weekend! Sorry they're so short, but since I'm pressed for time I figured a short chapter once a week would be better than a longer one every other week. 
> 
> I enjoyed writing Bilba's little song for this, and hope you didn't mind it too much. I love that Tolkien wrote songs and poems for his works, so I wanted to contribute the same kind of feel. 
> 
> Thanks for the comments and the kudos, guys! It really keeps me going. :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have returned!! So sorry it took this long to update--I had a lot of work going on with school and yeesh, it's been awful. I finally was able to finish up the chapter this weekend though. Please enjoy! 
> 
> (Also, I'm sad to note that I italicized a lot of words but none of it carried over when I copied and pasted from word. Sigh, makes me wonder if all my other chapters are like that too. I think they're italicized on my fanfiction.net account though.)

They started early the next day, while the light was still gray and mist blanketed the grassy undergrowth. The dwarves were well rested and in a decent enough mood, while Bilba was neither of those things. What soured her milk was…well, what wasn’t souring? Bilba was still unsettled over her aforementioned sleeping arrangements, sore from her pony ride, and not to mention aching from all the roots and rocks that had jabbed at her through the thin sheath of cloth fondly referred to as a “pallet.” And that wasn’t even the icing on the cake it would seem; she found there was not even a mirror to fix her hair! Bilba fingered the traveling satchel she had the foresight to cinch around her waist before barreling out of Bag End the other morning, forlorn that she hadn’t the prudence to bring a hand mirror. And a change of clothes as well, dash it all! Not that they would have fit, mind you. But a Baggins lady going on the second day of the same set of clothes—what were her principles coming to! She was beginning to remember why she had come to think of adventures as nasty things. 

As she plucked at the mess of her curls and rubbed her tender rump, Bilba wished herself back home in Bag End sitting on a pile of down cushions, hair in place and toes warming by the fire. She imagined a tray of lemon tarts as an afterthought upon feeling a hollow pang of hunger which was not likely to be alleviated anytime soon. The list of off-puttings really did go on and on in Bilba’s mind, and pining for home’s comforts worsened them to a considerable degree. 

Needless to say, the dwarves picked up on Bilba’s foul spirits immediately, and did their best to avoid contact with her as they packed up their supplies and readied the ponies. They tutted about “women” and their “grumpy moods,” and also made snide remarks about “hobbit lasses being disagreeable in the morning.” They did so none too quietly, which riled Bilba even more. 

“Hush! I may be grumpy, but my being a woman has nothing to it, thank you very much,” Bilba spoke up rather irritably. 

They all just tittered at this, leaving her to fume and tuck her tongue in cheek so as to not utter anything offensive. “I have half a mind…half a mind to…” they could hear her mumble.

“Is it just you who has half a mind, or hobbit women in general?” Nori gibed. Of course they all sniggered appreciatively at his humor, which ceased immediately when they noticed Thorin’s glowering frown and furrowed brows. They all quieted down and murmured half-meant apologies, which Bilba welcomed with half-meant acceptance. 

Nothing more was said and soon they were made ready to depart. On account of the critical reception of her eating habits, Bilba did not deem it prudent to ask if they would breakfast before their departure, knowing that the odds were against her. 

Sure enough, dwarves began mounting their steeds, indicating that she should do the same and bring her empty stomach with her. Oin and Gloin were gracious to assist Bilba yet again in clambering up Myrtle, though it was still an awkward affair and she fretted over her skirts rising up. 

Their ride was smooth and gentle since they were still in fairer country, but Bilba wouldn’t have known since her bruises were still fresh and every stride met her with throbbing pain. Bilba remained silent to keep from complaining and only maintained a polite interest in the conversations around her. Really she was tired of the dwarves at the moment and nothing they did would pass as agreeable in her current state. 

Clopping on for some time, and being in the back of their parade of fourteen, Bilba was becoming rather bored. She reached for the traveling satchel still bound at her waist that contained only the most vital of necessities; her embroidery of course was included amongst them and counted as such. Humming lightly, she pulled out her hoop with the cloth napkin attached, the very one that she had filled seam to seam—she hadn’t had the time to replace it with a fresh one. There was nothing for it but to loosen the threads so as to start afresh.

Ori looked on in curiosity. He was the one riding nearest to Bilba, and though he had been scribbling in a notebook of some sort earlier, he became preoccupied with her doings and tucked it away. 

“Aren’t you working on that backwards, Ms. Baggins? I thought the point was to sew patterns on, not sew them off,” he asked meekly. 

She waved the colorful cloth with a quick flick of the wrist. “Well, I can hardly fit any more patterns, you see. It is a pity to waste the work, but I’d rather put my hands to good use and rid myself of tedium.”

Bilba realized what she said and looked up to see Ori’s face fall, disconcerted that she would refer to travelling in their companionship as “tedium.”

Bilba rushed to save her manners. “Oh, I’m just at the back of the line, is all—away from all the interesting happenings and unable to hear the goings on.”

“Ah, of course, this is my fault. I’m sorry, I’ve had my head in my journals all this time and paid no mind to you, Ms. Baggins,” Ori said with an air of woeful understanding. 

Well, now she was just feeling guilty. “Please, call me Bilba,” she suggested sincerely, hoping that that would remedy the situation. 

It most certainly did, for Ori’s face brightened and his wispy smile curled to the side to match his lopsided bowl cut that somehow wasn’t quite as unflattering as it was endearing.

“Alright, I will! Bilba it is then!”

Well, since they were already on the subject of preferred terms of address, Bilba figured that now was a good a time as any to broach the concern that had long been weighing on her mind. 

“Master dwarf?” she began with hesitation, “There really is no easy way to say this, but I must admit, it has been troubling me.”

Ori’s smile vanished. He grew visibly worried thinking of what could be bothering Bilba. It could be any number of things, and he wasn’t sure he was prepared to deal with any of them. Why had she chosen to confide in him of all dwarves? Blinking himself out of his stupor, he tuned back in to what Bilba was saying. 

“…And I suppose sooner rather than later is the best way to wash a pot, as my father would say. So I’ll just get on with it then, shall I? In truth—though it is to say quite by accident on my part really, but it is nonetheless in truth—I am…well…”

Ori leaned in anxiously. You are? Well?

“…‘unsure’ of all of your names and was hoping you’d be so kind as to repeat them for me?” 

It really wasn’t all that awkward of a business as Bilba feared it to be. Ori had been expecting something far worse, if her tip-toing around the issue had been anything to go by, so to find that it was merely a problem with not knowing their names, it was a relief for him to say the least. That he could handle. 

“Well, Ms. Baggins—” 

“Um, Bilba, please.”

“Oh, that’s right—sorry! Well, Bilba, I wouldn’t worry about—”

“Oh I don’t believe I mentioned that I’m dreadfully sorry by the way!”

Ori blinked at Bilba’s wringing hands. “Right. It’s really fine, Bilba. I don’t mind helping you with everyone’s names.”

“Really? Oh thank you!” Bilba relaxed, only to grow red all over. She cast down her eyes. “Um…would you mind starting with yours?”

Ori would have felt the sting of her words much more had he not been able to see how absolutely mortified she was. 

“Oh…well, I’m Ori.” 

Bilba nodded in gratitude. “Ori.” 

“Oy, what’s this I hear about not knowing our names?” Nori butted in, having been shrewdly eaves-dropping this whole while. 

Bilba leapt up and was surprised to not have jumped straight out of her saddle and her knickers while she was at it. 

Ori looked at Bilba apologetically before admitting that yes, it was true, Bilba did not know all of their names. 

Nori’s eyes twinkled with a dangerous mischief. “Well, it would hardly be fair for me to be the only one who knows of this juicy little secret.”

“Nonsense, you wouldn’t!” Bilba gasped. But Nori’s side-eyed smirk told her that in fact he most definitely would. 

“Maybe I won’t…if you can tell me my name?”

Bilba’s mouth dropped open in alarm, and Nori bounced up and down with glee. “I suspected as much. Oy, everyone! Everyone! Listen to what I have to say about the hobbit!” And everyone indeed swiveled around in their saddles immediately to listen; they either looked puzzled or intrigued, or an equal combination of the two. Bilba meanwhile buried her face in her hands and cursed the dwarves under her breath. 

“The cheeky thing doesn’t even know our names!” 

This enlightening information coaxed just the reaction Nori was hoping for and what Bilba was dreading. All the dwarves, except for Thorin of course, prattled out indignant babbles, and they twisted their beards in a jerky fashion as if to catch hold around their pride. They soon disrupted their line to form an angry gathering surrounding poor Bilba, who was currently tugging at the hair on her toes and wishing to disappear. 

“What does he mean by this, Ms. Baggins?”

“Hm?” Bilba attempted to feign innocence, which was entirely ineffective against a pack of determined dwarves. 

“Do you know our names, lassie?” Gloin asked with crossed arms and squinting eyes. 

Bilba fiddled with her bodice, which was suffocating her at the moment under the stifling heat of unwanted attention. “Well…I—I—suppose it would be a lie to say that I do…though it wouldn’t be altogether truthful if I said that I didn’t…I do know some of them!” Bilba stammered with difficulty.

All the dwarves demanded at once to know whose names she did and did not know.

“Well…there’s Ori,” Bilba began unwillingly, giving a tired motion in his direction. They all gave affirming nods, beckoning her to continue. 

“And there’s Dwalin…he was the first one to show up on my doorstep.” This was greeted with more nods, and Dwalin trying to not appear so haughty to have been among the remembered. 

“And…um…you’re Balin, I believe? You arrived after Dwalin?” Murmurs of confirmation and a pleased smile from Balin followed. 

“And…oh dear…you two were next, I know…and your names rhymed…Ffff…K-k-k…Fail and Kale?” The dwarves all threw up their hands in exasperation, Fili and Kili’s being thrown the highest.

“Missus Boggins, how could you?” Kili whined, a hurt expression plastered on his face. 

“Just a moment, you don’t even know my name! It’s Baggins, not Boggins!” Bilba said, tired of being scrutinized. “And you all already knew each other before you charged my door and infiltrated my home, so what’s it for you to learn one more name? I got tossed into this whole affair, so please excuse me for not paying more mind to the names of my assailants!”

“Is that really all you know though?” Fili asked, bewildered.

Bilba reddened even more. “This…has been a rather shaky experience for me—you can hardly expect for my memory to serve me well under these conditions.”

“Do you at least know his?” Kili asked, titling his head at the dwarf riding in front, who all this time had been attempting to ignore their discussion. But at this obvious mention of him, he bristled and couldn’t help but perk up his ears. 

Of course they would ask about his name, and rightly so for him being the king and all. And thankfully since he was so important of a dwarf, he had a tendency to make that clear by repeating his title and predecessors when he felt it would fit into the conversation, which was far too often in Bilba’s opinion. 

“Oh—hm. What was his name?” Bilba pondered in jest. 

Thorin must not have recognized the tease in her tone—this much was clear at how positively affronted he looked. He gave a testy glare but steeled himself to silence, expecting one of the other dwarves to rise up in his defense, singing his namesake and his praises. 

Before giving anyone the honor however, Bilba rushed to retract the joke, regretting it entirely. “It was simply a poke of fun, Thorin! I know your name of course. Honestly, how could I forget? Master ‘Son of Thrain, Son of Thror, King of the Mountain?’”

Thorin might have been relieved at this, but he did not show it. Though it was apparent that it deterred a foul rise in his mood. The other dwarves however only had complaints and distressings to give.

“You know his name, his father’s name, and not just that but his grandfather’s name—but you can’t know ours?” 

Bilba groaned. Would this ever end? “Honestly, I’ve tried to pick up on all your names but none of you ever say them! I had been hoping you’d ease them into conversations, and I could pick them up that way, but you stubborn dwarves gave me nothing! All except Bombur’s name—” Bombur choked at this. “Yes, his is the last one I know—so please, if anything, understand that I’m sorry and that I did try,” Bilba pleaded. 

They all looked like they wanted to protest this further and reprimand their little burglar some more, but Thorin finally had something to say. 

“Is our pride so fragile that a hobbit woman not knowing our names warrants such insult? Ms. Baggins will learn them in time, and I suppose we should be more helpful in that regard.” 

Bilba relinquished the clench she had on the hair of her toes, feeling the tension about her dispel. Losing the confidence gained from the surge of emotions from earlier, she cleared her throat before squeaking out, “Please, call me Bilba. At this point I don’t expect any formalities used on my account.”

“Bilba?” Thorin confirmed. 

“Bilba! My name is Kili! Ki—li! Say it now, and then a thousand times over so that I know you will have it engraved in your mind and on your tongue!” Kili persisted. 

“And mine as well! I would greatly appreciate never being referred to as ‘Fail’ again—it’s Fili.”

Bilba obediently repeated their names with a laugh until both were satisfied, and then they pressured her to move on to the next. After a good bit of recitation, she had everyone’s names stored for eternity, though she struggled a bit with Oin and Gloin’s, much to their chagrin and to everyone else’s amusement. In the end, she went down the line and called on each one of them, cheers and applause revealing the dwarves’ approval. 

“Do your names have any particular meaning though? Ori, I had meant to ask you that earlier—what does your name mean?”

Ori glanced searchingly at Dori, who Bilba just learned to be Ori’s eldest brother, Nori being in the middle of the two. “It’s alright,” Dori assured. “They’re not our inner names, so it would be fine to speak their meaning.”

Bilba blinked. “Inner names?” 

Balin offered an explanation. “Ay, dwarves are given names at birth in Khuzdul—which would be known as ‘Dwarvish’ to you. It is a language we keep to ourselves, so we also have Mannish names to use in place of our true names when we are around non-dwarven kin such as yourself.” 

They couldn’t be serious—two names? Bilba looked around incredulously, thinking that surely someone would contradict this claim. But no one did, and she was left to wonder at the secretiveness of dwarves.

“Well then, what do your Mannish names mean?” Bilba specified her question having accepted this dwarvish oddity. 

“Mine means ‘violent,’” Ori proclaimed, puffing out his chest and grinning widely. 

Bilba stifled a giggle. Someone as sweet and passive as Ori with a name like that?

“You got the best out of all of us,” Nori grumbled, “mine’s ‘little scrap’ and Dori’s is ‘borer’—named such due to how boring he is. Very appropriate.”

“For the last time,” Dori yelped, “it’s based on boring holes! Like an auger-man! It’s an art form!”

After hearing what everyone else’s names signified, Bilba gathered that all they all held meanings similar to either a terrifying characteristic or a crafting term—dwarves and their ways, she thought shaking her head. 

“Tell her yours, Thorin! It’s a good one!” Kili pressed. 

Thorin looked reluctant. “It’s ‘daring,’” he admitted with a gruff voice.

It actually was a good one, Bilba found herself realizing. There was nothing much more daring than forming a rag-tag team of dwarves (and a hobbit, mind you) to take down a hostile dragon and reclaim your kingdom.

“It really is good,” she mused out loud. 

“What about Bilba? What hobbit meaning does it hold?” Thorin asked, meeting and holding Bilba’s gaze.

“Something about food is what I would reckon,” Bofur teased. 

Bilba laughed. “No no, not at all! Hobbit girls are named after flowers. We hold flowers in very high regard, us hobbits. Why, there isn’t a hobbit out there without a garden in his yard or a vase on his table.”

Thorin gave a knowing nod. “Like your mayflowers.”

“Yes,” Bilba said unable to hide her surprise that Thorin remembered. “Like my mayflowers.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of the bilba plant, or any such variety,” Oin snorted. 

Heat glowed on Bilba’s cheek. “Yes, well, my mother had been known as being rather…unconventional. She was a Took after all. She named me after the bulb of a flower, and I count my good graces every day that it ended up being ‘Bilba’ in place of ‘Bulba.’ How horrid would that have sounded?”

“Why a flower bulb though? What does that mean?” 

“All flowers do have their meanings—such as Belladonna for ‘beautiful lady’ and Lobelia for ‘malice.’ I can honestly say that both ladies I know who were named such lived up to their expectations,” Bilba noted with pleasure, before wrinkling her nose. “A bulb though has no meaning, for how can you know what flower it belongs to?” Memories of being picked on for her nothing name suddenly came back to her, and she fell quiet as the thoughts turned to her mother, how she would go to her in tears begging for any name other than her own.

“A bulb can become anything then.”

Bilba was startled out of her despondency. “Pardon?”

“I said,” Thorin repeated, “a bulb can become anything. You are Bilba because you have no flower to tie you down—you are a bulb because you can bloom into anything. It is a name of ‘potential.’ Your mother chose with a wise purpose.” 

Suddenly, it all made sense to Bilba. Her mother had always answered her tearful pleas for a different name without a straight answer but with a story of a revered maiden—each time it had been a different story, a different maiden, a different possibility. Her mother had chosen the name because she wanted to give Bilba an opportunity to grow, a chance to bloom into whatever she wanted, no roots attached.

“Yes…I suppose you’re right…” Bilba said in a daze, struggling to keep from crying. “Thank you.”

The dwarves didn’t understand how what Thorin said deserved any thanks at all, but they saw how Bilba’s eyes were watering over and they began to shift uncomfortably in their saddles. 

“Bilba, what have you got in you lap?” Bofur asked to distract her. 

“Hm? Oh, it’s my embroidery,” she said lifting up the hoop and napkin for all to see. 

“…Why would you have that with you?” Thorin said, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“You never know when you might need it,” she said brusquely, annoyed at his judgment. “Well, I’m unstitching it all at the moment since it’s already full, but soon I’ll be able to design a new pattern.” She paused, an idea forming. “Hang on now! I am quite pleased with myself for having learned all of your names I’ll have you know, so how about something for commemoration? I could stitch your names with a little embroidered pattern on the backs of your hoods!” 

Bilba looked very proud of her suggestion, but the dwarves were unsure as to how they should receive it. They turned to Thorin, making a tacit and collective decision that his word would be the final say. 

Thorin stared down at Bilba. “Are you afraid you’ll forget them again?”

Bilba took offense. “No, certainly not! I just thought it would be a kind gesture, is all. There’s not much I can do for you, I’m afraid, but embroidery is definitely within the range of my skillset.”

Everyone awaited Thorin’s verdict with bated breath. He gave a defeated sigh. 

“Fine, Ms. Baggins—”

“Bilba.”

“Fine, Bilba,” Thorin corrected with forced patience. “I’ll allow this.”

Bilba clapped her hands together and wiggled her toes, excited over Thorin’s blessing and her chance to gift something to them all. 

“Splendid! Yours is first Thorin,” Bilba said, reaching out for Thorin’s sky-blue hood. 

It was coupled with grumbling and growling, but Thorin obliged and offered Bilba his hood, much to the delight of the others. And with a song on her lips and a spring in her curls, Bilba unstitched a length of silver thread to set to work, feeling her mood greatly improved since that morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it! I've been wanting to have that embroidery scene in there for a while. I initially had planned on it to be in chapter 2, but I didn't like it and decided to move it somewhere else and that's where I got the idea of them all going over names and such. But I gotta know, what do you guys think of the reasoning behind Bilba's name? I know lots of people hate the genderbent name because it goes against Middle Earth canon, but I decided to add a little twist to it that made it work. I'd be super interested to hear what you thought! 
> 
> Thanks for the read! Hopefully I can bring out the next chapter a lot sooner.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I finally updated! Sorry it took so long! I honestly have had this written for over a month, but I had some parts of it that nagged me, so I tried to fix them every once in a while, though I dunno if it made much difference. On the bright side, I got a whole lot of future chapters written (when I should have been working on school, heh heh), so I'll for sure be updating every weekend for the next 6 weeks, woo hoo!

“May I see it?”

Bilba allowed a sigh to give way. “Thorin, I hope you’re quite done with your asking because I for one am quite done with my answering. You may see it when it’s finished, and it will be finished…when it is finished.” 

Having been denied a peek yet again, Thorin frowned and turned away, appearing disinterested. Honestly, Bilba thought, if the idea didn’t seem so ridiculous she would go as far to say that he was pouting. Embroidery was a patient business, and Thorin it would seem wasn’t a practitioner in such a profession. 

Bilba had been stitching all morning, her nimble fingers leading the thread into precise positions, having stopped only when they had detoured for a much needed breakfast. It was taking her some time to get the details just right, what with the challenging techniques she decided to use, but it was not a difficult task for her. Bilba happened to be the owner of a chest-full of blue ribbons won by her finer embroideries at the yearly fair, as well as a not-as-prized red ribbon unjustly doled out on account of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins’s devious contest rigging, that fiend. Bilba pushed back this grudging thought and turned instead to striking up a conversation with Thorin. 

“This blue really is a lovely color though, Thorin,” Bilba began, “and the silver tassel goes so well! I’m glad I had silver thread on me because it matches ever so nicely with it.” 

“Maybe if I could see it I would be able to agree,” Thorin prompted.

“Oh hush! It’s almost finished—you’ve waited this long, what’s a few minutes more?”

“This knitting thing seems to take a while. I don’t see how anyone has the time for it,” Dwalin said with a yawn.

“It’s embroidery,” Bilba corrected, “and it’s something expected of all hobbit ladies, and if not that then it must be something of equal merit, such as painting or piano.”

“Why would you want to do any of that?” Kili asked, sticking out his tongue. 

“Yes, the fiddle is far superior to the piano—they should learn that instead,” Fili suggested. 

“I suppose any instrument would do,” Bilba considered, “But you’re missing the point! If one is fortunate enough to be born into high society, then one must conduct themselves accordingly, which means adhering to all the expectations that run with it.”

“You’re a member of high society?” Bofur said, craning around in his saddle to teasingly raise his brows at her. 

“By hobbit standards, yes. Why, how else would you expect an out-of-work woman to live on her own in a furnished hole without the crutch of marriage to lean on?”

Bofur shrugged. “I don’t know about the rest, but I think we figured you couldn’t find anyone to marry you.” 

Bilba strained her lips into a thin line. “That was a rhetorical question, Bofur.”

Bofur noticed he struck a chord and ventured to press a bit further. “Ahh, so it’s true! You couldn’t get anyone to marry you!” 

An unflattering garbled noise emitted from Bilba’s throat. 

“Go on, go on! It’s alright to tell us,” Bofur said, batting his lashes. But then his eyes widened. “Oh dear, you’re not ugly in hobbit terms, are you? That would be a pity. I wouldn’t say you’re a diamond amongst dwarves, but surely with hobbits…?” 

Bilba, now a bright shade of red, waved her hands frantically. “Enough!” she squeaked, “Let’s not…I’m not…I need to get back to work—Thorin will need his hood.” 

By this moment however, all the dwarves were intrigued at Bilba’s apparently strange circumstances, and all heads were facing her. 

Bilba groaned. “Is my marital status really deserving of this much attention? And that’s rhetorical as well, Bofur!” she added upon seeing him open his mouth to speak.

“We’re just curious!” Kili said in Bofur’s stead. 

“Fine fine,” Bilba gave in, wanting to be rid of their stares. “For one, I am not ugly by any means,” she said this with a glare at Bofur who raised his hands defensively in return, “And I suppose I’ve had my fair share of…fanciers…as much as the next lady of course. But I must say that their feelings were unrequited, and I don’t believe I’ve ever pursued anyone myself. And when marriage isn’t a necessity for your lifestyle, well, you learn to live without because quite frankly you can.” There, that was all that they needed to know, Bilba determined. 

Stroking their beards, the dwarves pondered what she said, and a few nods of acceptance were given here and there, while Bilba, tired of being interrogated, sought to turn the tables on them. 

“And what of my dwarven companions, hm? Surely you have loved ones anxiously awaiting your return?” 

Seeing their shifty reactions, she gave an amused smile. “Come now, I wouldn’t say you lot are charmers amongst hobbits, but surely by dwarf standards? Unless,” she gasped, “the legends really are true and you all were grown from stone?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dwalin scoffed, “though we outnumber them two to one, there are dwarf-women. None amongst us have chosen to take a wife…except for Gloin that is.”

Gloin sat up taller at this remark. “Aye, and a beauty she is! Beard almost as long as mine—and twice as smooth!” 

Bilba nearly dropped Thorin’s hood to the ground. “I’m sorry? Be…beard?”

“Yes, all dwarves have beards!” Gloin said impatiently, as though he’d had to explain this one too many times before. “Man or woman—they’ve got a beard. This may not be the case for the other races, though it’s very unusual that not even hobbit men have them…face as naked as elves, they are. Unnatural,” he felt inclined to add. 

“Unnatural? It’s proper! It wouldn’t be respectable for a hobbit gentleman to let a beard grow out!” Bilba cried. 

“Surely some of your men have beards?” Ori piped up, looking distraught at the very thought of being beardless by choice. 

Bilba thought for a moment before shaking her head, unable to offer consolation. “Not a one, I assure you. But really though, out of all of you, Gloin is the only one to have married? I find that hard to believe.”

“Why? Is it on account of our dashing good looks?” Kili asked with a flip of his hair.

“It’s not that,” Bilba said, her laughs alighting on his slumping shoulders, “it’s just…such a slim fraction! One of thirteen? That’s less than…eight percent!” she said, having calculated on her fingers. 

“Yes yes,” Thorin rolled his eyes, “it’s not a lot. Dwarf men don’t often marry. Now if you please, can you finish with my hood so that I might wear it once more?” 

“Ah, yes of course, sorry,” Bilba muttered, returning to her needle. 

Perhaps she had overstepped her boundaries, but the others hadn’t been too cautious in treading with her either. To her shock she realized that she had been speaking rather boldly with them, an audacity she altogether never imagined. Adventuring was a potent stuff; a mere two days with these dwarves and the tight threads of her rigid poise had begun to unwind themselves little by little. Bilba didn’t believe she had ever felt this, for lack of a better term, “comfortable” with a group of people before. Of course she always enjoyed the time she spent with her typical batch of company, and rightly so for hobbits were never ones to falter with entertaining, be it on the part of the host or the guest. But those events were planned and expected, and while Bilba never had felt forced into them it went without question that a lofty degree of decorum was required of her. She was conditioned so that her social behavior became rote, as was anybody’s who wished to bear the title of a respectable hobbit who never did anything unexpected. But being among dwarves whom had nothing hobbitish to hold her to, maybe this was why her shoulders weren’t as tense right then, or why her laughs fell more often, or why everything she did felt less like being pulled on a marionette’s string and more of her own natural doing? 

Deep in thought, Bilba tied off her final stitch. She then rifled through her satchel for her sewing scissors she was so fond of, an antiquated curio of hers that took the figure of a lanky bird, and snipped off the loose end of thread. There! She was immensely pleased she had remembered her scissors or that might have been a trying affair. Bilba held Thorin’s hood aloft in triumph. “Thorin, I think I might just let you have that peek now.”

Thorin whisked towards her, reaching out as he did so. “That took a while.”

Bilba grinned. “A clever insight indeed. I could have finished earlier, if I hadn’t been questioned for so long that is.”

Thorin weighed the fabric in his hands before smoothing out the folds to examine Bilba’s pattern. It was at the nape of the hood so that it would be seen from behind, and it was a very eloquent piece of work to be sure. Thorin’s name was scrawled across in delicate letters with a touch of blockiness that dwarves would appreciate. Protruding above the signature was a tiny mountain, complete with crags and all, while at its base littered a pile of minute shapes fashioned to be jewels and coins. Below his name was a thick branch, and if one looked closely you could see swirls and fine lines creating an intricate pattern of bark.

Thorin carefully fingered the thread, examining it with a wary eye, while Bilba looked on in anticipation for some sign of approval. 

“You put an oak branch?”

“Oh, um, yes,” Bilba said, admittedly feeling crestfallen at this response. “Thorin ‘Oakenshield?’ I thought I would include something in reference to that…I hope that’s alright…” she trailed off.

Thorin looked up at her, eyes glowing. “It is. It’s perfect.”

Bilba’s heart swelled before it stopped in her chest, and she could feel the heat rising to flush her cheeks. “Oh,” is all she could manage to say. 

Balin motioned to see the hood, and Thorin handed it to him with a lingering touch.

Upon noticing the designs, Balin let out a low whistle. “This is a thing of beauty, Bilba. Very crafty, I must say.”

Dori asked to see it next. “Why, it’s a work of art!” he breathed. “How did you manage to fit in so much detail?”

The hood was passed around and everyone ogled at the tiny stitchings that were able to form such a picture. Bilba was accustomed to compliments on her embroideries, but she had always taken them as polite nothings and certainly never received praise such as this. Even Dwalin had something nice to say in that gruff voice of his! She blushed and grinned, shying away from everyone’s sincerity. 

“It’s like veins of silver, shining out of pale blue stone,” Oin said in awe. 

“I’m sure you’d have any hobbit in the shire if you showed him this!” Bofur exclaimed.

“Nonsense,” Bilba gave a weak laugh, “it would take much more than that to sway them.”

Finally the hood was returned to Thorin’s hands, and he promptly draped it about his head to set it in its rightful place. He felt proud and mighty indeed, to have all the other dwarves casting wistful glances at his fine gift. 

Thorin then looked to Bilba, eyes narrowing. “But…how did you know?”

Balin nodded. “Aye, I was wondering that as well.”

Bilba blinked between the two of them. “Know…what?”

“About the oaken branch. Surely someone must have told you?” Thorin pressed, looking at all the dwarves in turn expecting one of them to come forth. No one did however, so Bilba was left struggling to explain herself. 

“I’m sorry it’s an oak branch and not a shield,” Bilba lamented, “but to be honest, I don’t know much of shields and I fear I couldn’t attempt to design anything remotely resembling one. I hoped that a branch would do just as well…it immediately reminded you of oak, did it not?”

Thorin shook his head in wonder. “My oaken shield was an oaken branch. I relied on it in the Battle of Azanulbizar.”

Bilba, still a bit perplexed, asked Thorin to clarify more plainly please. 

“I’ll tell it, Thorin,” Balin offered with glistening eyes. 

And so it was that Bilba learned of the Battle of Azanulbizar, a terrible bloodbath fought between dwarves and orcs for the claim of Moria. It ended as a pyrrhic victory for the dwarven folk, the funeral pyres for their comrades covering far too expansive a distance all for a kingdom they should never have dared to reenter. Balin got quieter when he brought up the death of his and Dwalin’s father and Thorin’s grandfather and younger brother, regret lacing his words when he spoke of how they were unable to set them to rest properly in stone tombs. During this massacre, while chaos reigned king, Thorin fought tooth and nail for his people, refusing to give up even after his shield had shattered. Picking up a nearby oaken branch, he used this to block the blows of his foes as he rallied his kinsman for one last attack, trumping the orcs. And from that day forth he swore to never use any shield other than if it was a plain one of oak, not until he was hailed as King of Erebor. 

“And I thought to myself then, ‘There is one I can follow. There is one I can call King.’” Balin ended his narrative with this stirring pledge, a tear tumbling into his white beard. All the others had mouths agape, Bilba included, staring reverently at Thorin Oakenshield, worthiest among worthy. Bilba was taken with emotion at the tale, and she wiped away a few tears herself before giving a sniffling smile at Thorin.

“Well, I can’t imagine I did your title justice with my silly embroidery.”

Thorin had been staring straight ahead for all of the recounting, not seeming to enjoy being at the forefront of attention. He would have been perfectly still if not for the gentle swaying from side to side that only all too naturally comes from riding atop a pony. 

At Bilba’s voice, Thorin turned. “Nothing that has such meaning could be considered ‘silly.’ What luck it is that you chose a branch against a shield, for it made for a welcomed surprise. I thank you for the gift, Ms. Baggins,” Thorin bowed his head. 

His stately words took her breath away, and quite in fact Bilba’s ability to place words into a coherent expression of thought. So she fell into a blush and muttered something about it being just Bilba please, thank you, knowing that this was nowhere near to a proper response. She sought to busy herself immediately. 

“Balin, I could do your hood next if you’d like?”

Balin beamed at her. “It would be a pleasure, lassie!” and he handed off his scarlet hood. 

Bilba tapped at her chin in concentration, surveying the hood to determine the color thread to suit it best. “Goldenrod,” she settled on, “to match the yellow jewels in your belt.”

“Ah, these are topaz,” Balin said, patting them. 

“Ah I see.” She tried to be polite, though it really made no difference to her what they were called—a rock by any other name is still a rock.

And so Bilba sewed, engaging in idle chatter with the others as she worked, stopping to indulge in a modest lunch, and then back to sewing till encroaching darkness forced an end to their journeying for the day. She continued on her embroidery through the evening as well, perched by the campfire savoring supper, kept awake by the dwarves’ rollicking voices. It wasn’t until conversations subsided into hushed murmurs mingled with snores that Bilba would find herself drifting off as well, hood and needle in hand. She would then wake with the promising welcome of the sun, her embroidery always curiously folded to the side, which she picked up with after they set off. She had been growing all the more fond of adventures the whole while and was happy to report that dwarves were not nearly as disagreeable as her original impression suggested; even their rougher qualities were smoothed over with familiarity or could be learned to regard as quirks of character. 

This is how the next few days passed: in ease. Bilba would later look back on this time with a reverent smile, for it was a simpler road where her naivety flourished and her shoulders were laden with few worries but the hitching of her skirt. 

Then the rain started. 

That bebothering, beblasted, becursed rain. 

Bilba’s newfound interest in adventures lasted approximately a week before they were washed away with the excessive downpour that was lasting just as long. She then became quick to say she wanted nothing to do with adventuring of any sort and wished to be back in her cozy little hole, nice and dry with the kettle just beginning to sing.   
The dwarves paid no mind to her of course. They were too occupied with their own grumblings and couldn’t be troubled to acknowledge Bilba, let alone each other.   
“I’m sure all the bags are soaked through,” Bilba sighed. “And your hoods! Oh, I just finished embroidering all of them and now they’re getting the brunt of the weather already! They’ll never last long at this rate. All that work too.” 

Dori was riding closest to Bilba and couldn’t take her complaints any longer, so he sought to console her if not to quiet her down some. 

“Now now, Bilba, I’m sure your needle-work will hold. These hoods have been through much more than a little rain, and their colors still are true.”

This did nothing to lessen Bilba’s reasons to complain. In fact, it only gave her someone to direct her complaints to. Poor Dori, who was a rather decent fellow, was forced to listen to everything Bilba thought was going wrong or would go wrong. He agreed with it all, but would much rather not have to be reminded of it. 

Soon the Company reached a river at the bottom of a valley. The waters were swollen and they pushed against the banks, rushing with a fervor intensified by the incessant rain. Fili spotted a bridge a ways down, and without so much as a “Thank you, Fili” or a “Good job, Fili,” which goes to show how dreadful of a mood everyone was in, they made their way across the bridge, the ponies inching along the slick stones. 

Once all were safe across, Thorin mumbled something about having something to eat and turning in for the night. Grunts of agreement were issued, and everyone set to finding a dry patch of ground under the refuge of the tress. 

It would be their luck that the pony burdened with the majority of their food bags happened to be the most skittish. It could have been a drip of water plopping on his nose, or his hooves breaking a blade of grass—whatever it was, it sent him careening and braying towards the river, only to be trapped by the relentless torrent. Fili and Kili rushed in, but they could do nothing for the beast or their packages, and they helplessly watched as pony and parcels were dragged downstream, getting half-drowned in the process themselves. 

Oin tended to them as they sputtered and coughed up water, and Thorin offered his fur coat, which was large enough to wrap the two of them up nicely. 

“Gloin, when are you expecting to start the fire?” Thorin barked. 

“I’m trying, I’m trying! All of the kindling is too damp to be of any use!” Gloin said back.

“We need to get Fili and Kili warm!” Thorin stressed. 

“Uncle, really, we’re fine,” said Kili, rolling his eyes.

Bofur out of all of them still somehow managed to retain his good humor. “We’ll all huddle close to them—they’ll warm up in no time!” he insisted. And with that he lunged at Fili and Kili, and he laughed as they grunted under his weight. 

Bilba busied herself with wringing out her skirt, trying not to be entertained by their antics, but she couldn’t help a smile give way as she watched them tumble and tussle about. She was soon grinning widely, which was a refreshing respite from feeling glum and downtrodden. 

Looking around, Bilba’s eyes fell on Thorin, who had a slight smile of his own. He had been rather glum as of late as well, she realized. It was nice to see his eyes soften and the warmth return to them. Thorin must have felt her gaze, for he looked at her to match her stare, causing Bilba to jump. 

“It’s been a while since you’ve smiled, Ms. Baggins.”

Bilba gave a mock titter of annoyance, “Please, it’s Bilba. I believe everyone else in the company is able to remember outside of you.” 

A corner of Thorin’s mouth tilted up a bit more. “It’s been a while since you’ve reminded me.” 

“Perhaps I should embroider something with my name as well? Then you may look upon it and rehearse it in your head, and I need not have to constantly remind you.”

“Perhaps,” Thorin said, “or perhaps you shall have to get used to hearing your surname more often, Ms. Baggins.”

Bilba just shook her head at him. Dwarves. 

“I see a light through the trees! It’s only a flicker, but there must be a fire a ways off,” Balin alerted. He always served as their lookout, and there wasn’t a dwarf among them who could spot something quicker. 

Frustrated and cursing, Gloin threw down his tinder-box and angrily peered through the darkness to spot the audacious flame. “Aye, it’s there alright. Though I don’t see how anyone can set a spark in this damp,” he grumbled. 

“Should we check it out?” Ori ventured, anxious to get warmer. 

“Maybe we won’t have to eat our meal cold after all,” Bombur said hopefully. 

Gloin ruffled and stuck a firm thumb in his belt. “Nonsense! I’ll get this fire started in no time!” and he called for Oin (loudly and several times) for assistance. 

Thorin focused on the quivering light in the distance. “I don’t like that we don’t know who’s over there,” he said lowly. 

“Maybe we could send a scout?” Dwalin suggested, following Thorin’s caution. 

Bilba perked up at this. “I’ll go!”

Thorin and Dwalin whirled on her, featuring expressions mixed with shock and scandal. 

“You’ll do no such thing,” Thorin commanded with a stern frown. Dwalin supplied a stiff nod to concur.

Bilba sighed. “Am I a part of this company or aren’t I? It’s about time I contributed something besides embroidery. You won’t let me unload; you won’t let me pack; you won’t let me take shifts during the night watch; you won’t even let me mount Myrtle on my own!”

“Your pony?” Thorin’s frown deepened, “But…you can’t mount on your own.”

Bilba waved this detail aside. “That’s beside the point. I am the quietest amongst us—do not try to refute that, Thorin—and I could walk there and back again without so much as rustling a leaf. It makes nothing but sense that I should be the one to go.” 

Thorin arched a brow. “Does it?”

For the first time since Bilba could recall, her determination did not waver. “It does.”

Thorin looked at Dwalin, who didn’t want the hassle of arguing about it and crossed his arms with a gruff shrug. Thorin then sighed, and stared down at Bilba. 

“You will survey the area and return immediately after. Understood?”

Bilba could have leapt for joy at having swayed Thorin, but she restrained herself. “Understood.”

Before he could give it a second thought and realize what he agreed to, Bilba skipped lightly towards the cluster of trees ahead, and soon she vanished within the shadows of the forest. 

It was easy work making her way unnoticed; hobbits never made any noise if they wished, and they took great pride in that. So it came to her ears like an avalanche when she heard twigs snapping a few meters to her left. She stood stock still, tensing and heightening her senses. Her pulse quickened as she realized she didn’t know what she would do if someone caught her off guard. 

Bilba swallowed, her mouth dry. “You…might as well come out…I know you’re there,” she said in a hushed tone. It was much to her relief and the benefit of her nerves that it was Nori who stepped out from the direction of the noise. 

“Nori,” she gasped, clutching at her chest, “so it’s only you. I should have known from all that dwarvish racket,” she added under her breath. 

Nori looked her trembling form up and down. “Did I really frighten you that badly?” 

“Excuse me, but I’m sure you would be just as startled had you been in my shoes!”

Nori smirked. “Maybe I would if you actually wore shoes.”

Exasperated, Bilba slid a hand down her face. “It’s just an expression and you know it! What could possibly have possessed you to follow me in the first place?”

“I wanted to see if I could scare you, which I could, but also…” and Nori shuffled closer to her, as if what he was about to impart was of the utmost secrecy, “…I also wanted to know if you wanted to try your hand at being a burglar.”

“…pardon?”

Nori sidled an arm across her shoulder and brought his head close, causing Bilba to blush and turn away. 

“You are our burglar, are you not? You might have minimal experience, but that’s what you signed on as. I figured I could teach you some tricks of the trade.”

Bilba weighed his words and pondered for a moment. It was a very enticing offer…and proving her worth as a burglar would be nice…and there certainly wasn’t any harm in learning was there? 

Bilba lifted Nori’s hand from off her shoulder and she twirled out from under it. “Alright then, Nori. Where do we start?” 

Nori grinned. “Pickpocketing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oho! Where will this lead? Find out in the next exciting installment! 
> 
> But yeah, let me know what you thought of this one! 
> 
> (And sorry if the notes I put at the start and end of each chapter are annoying-I really like pretending I'm having a conversation with all of you, haha.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, thank you so much for all of your thoughtful comments!! They mean so much more to me than you know, and I don't think anything I can say would be able to express my gratitude enough. But you're all awesome, so, thank you!!
> 
> And as promised, next chapter is up within a week! But oh goodness gracious alive guys, I'm so excited because this chapter is the one that has been my favorite to write so far! It was a lot of fun, especially since it was an idea I had for a while and finally setting the scene was very satisfying. Ohoho!! Onward!!

“You steady yourself, timing your breathing with your victim’s—"

“Can you please use a different term?” Bilba insisted, shifting her feet. “Victim” made it sound like she’d be committing some terrible crime, and while pickpocketing was indeed a crime, she’d like to isolate herself from this fact however she was able

Nori sighed. “Fine. Target?”

Bilba shook her head, almost immediately receiving a mental image of arrows soaring towards some poor fellow. 

Groaning, Nori thought some more. “Client?”

This Bilba accepted, and Nori continued his lesson without a hitch. 

“Time your breathing with your ‘client’s’,” he enunciated mockingly, “Then, very carefully, very slowly, you reach your hand inside his pocket, making sure your hand rises and falls as he does. Once your hand is in, it’s like a snare that you have to escape, so pinch his belongings at the short end and the second he’s on a down breath you slip it out like you were never there. Slick and quick. And that’s all there is to pickpocketing—a very elementary drill, really.” Nori examined his nails, looking smug and unimpressed. 

“Why do I get the feeling you’ve done this before?” Bilba said with a searching frown. 

“Let’s just say my day job isn’t what brought food to the table,” he sneered. 

Bilba’s heart sunk, guilt flooding it over. “Nori, I…I’m sorry—"

“Let me stop you there,” Nori said holding up a hand, “I don’t want your pity. I’ve managed well enough. Even graduated to more complicated heists that paid a pretty coin. I’m more of a consultant of sorts now, I’ve retired from the actual dirty work.”

Bilba only nodded. She had lived a charmed and sheltered life, she realized, and these dwarves were handed the shorter end of the stick. She would never come to know this type of loss, the misplaced feeling of being deprived of your old life, the desperation in needing to earn a new one through any means necessary. It didn’t sit well with her, and she shivered. 

“Do you have a knife?”

Nori’s sudden and outlandish question caused Bilba to jump. 

“Do I?” Bilba balked, clearly insulted. 

Nori looked amused. “Well now, let’s not be testy! I just figured I’d ask. You ready?” 

Bilba pulled at a curl falling into her face. “As ready as I’ll ever be I suppose.”

“Perfect. If any real danger persists, hoot twice like a barn owl and once like a screech owl,” he instructed, giving her an unceremonious push into the trees ahead.

Before Bilba could ask how she was possibly supposed to know what those owls sounded like, Nori had disappeared. Whether hidden in the bushes or headed back to the security of camp Bilba didn’t know. She rolled back her shoulders, smoothed down her skirt, and placed a confident step forward. They grew less and less so however the closer she drew to the fire and the brighter its menacing glow became. It was when she heard loud, unruly voices that her legs began to quake and she started to rethink this whole affair. But somehow Bilba found herself at the opening of a clearing and when she saw the scene before her she had never been more thankful at how quietly hobbits were able to tread. 

Bilba had imagined a lot of nasty things in the clearing and who those grating shouts belonged to. The chiefest fears were of large, horrible men, with evil in their hearts and vices in their wills. But what actually was there was far, far worse. 

Trolls. They were trolls.

Three big, horrid, despicable, and downright smelly trolls. 

Bilba froze in her tracks, a cold sweat forming on her brow. She could just turn around. She was so quiet and deft of foot that they hadn’t noticed her arrival and still had yet to see her. Speaking of which, Bilba took a step back into the shadows, realizing that she had been in full view. An easy mistake. 

Bilba rubbed her fingers together and danced from foot to foot. She was in a terrible plight with herself. Her rational side was telling her to not be ridiculous, you cannot handle these trolls please save yourself the trouble and march straight back to camp. Her less than rational side meanwhile was deriding her; you joined this brigade as a burglar and can’t just return empty-handed—it wouldn’t be becoming! 

Warning bells went off in the back of her mind, calling to her attention the promise she made to Thorin about simply scouting the area and doing nothing more. Actually, she realized, she technically hadn’t promised. It was more of an understanding of sorts, the breaking of which wouldn’t impose on her conscience whatsoever. 

Bilba reached her conclusion. 

If she was a contracted burglar, then by golly she best do some burgling. 

Bilba crept up around the clearing, as stealthy as could be, not even daring to so much as even blink lest her lashes clang together and draw attention to her presence. Bert, Tom, and William were none the wiser—yes, those were their names. They blurted them often enough for Bilba to catch them, and the trollish nomenclature sounded strange to her ears. Slinking behind William, Bilba eyed the pockets of his trousers. Noticing the bulge in the right-side pocket, Bilba correctly assumed this was the one for picking. She shifted her weight, heart thumping in her ears, and reached a tiny hand outwards, gawking at the enormity of everything about William’s person.

Remembering Nori’s teachings, she steadied herself, raising and lowering her arm in time to William’s heavy breathing. And, before Bilba could change her mind, she dipped her hand into the large opening and mildly grasped for contents within. Aha! She caught ahold of something! Her fingers wrapped around the corner of a purse, a purse so large that Bilba could have added it to her luggage set if the smell wouldn’t deter her. 

The next step was to yank it out, slick and quick Nori had said. Bilba waited only a moment longer, then she gave a mighty tug and out popped the bag, landing squarely in her arms. 

Bilba didn’t have a chance to feel proud, a shame to say, because she was soon after caught. 

To Bilba’s utter astonishment and dismay, by some magic the purse squeaked. “’Ere, ‘oo are you?” 

Everything dropped: the bag from Bilba’s hands, her heart to her feet, and her spirits to the pits of the hole she might as well have dug herself into. 

William, without missing a beat, reached around and picked Bilba up by the neck of her cloak. 

“And jus’ wot do yer think yer doin’?” he demanded none too kindly. Bilba understood however, because for one she had been trying to rob him and for the other, well, he was a troll. 

Bert and Tom looked up from their drinks, blank expressions distorted by the tricks the firelight played on their faces; it made them look malicious and glowering without the effort of trying. 

“Looks like we got us a snack!” Tom said. 

This didn’t sit well with Bilba at all, and the trees started spinning and her head swam with it, unease churning inside her. 

She let out a distressed whimper, garnering interest from her beastly captors. 

“It may be sick…,” William said, shaking her lightly. “Maybe we shouldn’t risk eatin’ it?”

Bert growled. “It’ll be fine so long as we cook it!”

“It wouldn’t make above a mouthful,” William said with disdain. “Might as well let it go.”

“Oi, wait! What if there’s more than this one about?” Tom said. 

Blast. Bilba thought she might have had a chance but good old Tom just dashed it away. 

William turned Bilba around in his hands, probing her with fingers twice the size of her legs. “Are there any more o’ yers around?”

Bilba was so shaken she couldn’t think of a coherent reply so instead she nodded. Realizing what that meant, she stopped and began to shake her head frantically. She was sure she looked ridiculous, eyes bulging and head bopping back and forth, but at this point what did it matter? 

All three trolls scratched at their heads. “Do yer think that’s a yes?”

Bert shrugged. “It wasn’t a no.”

Bilba, you fool, she thought. 

“We could make a pie!” Tom whooped and clapped. 

“And jus’ oo’ is gonna make it?” William asked. “I made a pie jus’ last week and you louts didn’t touch it!”

“It was a mutton pie, Bill! We been eatin’ mutton for weeks!” said Bert. 

They bickered back and forth for a good while, voices escalating and gestures becoming more exaggerated. Poor Bilba was swung back and forth, squished in the firm clasp of William’s sweaty fist. 

“Well give it ‘ere then! If yer ain’t gonna cook, I will!” Bert yelled, reaching an equally sweaty hand towards Bilba. 

William recoiled but he wasn’t fast enough because Bert managed to catch ahold of one of Bilba’s legs.

Against her will, Bilba was soon dangling upside down, the hem of her skirts now tracing her chin, one leg in Bert’s hand and the other in William’s. 

This was quite the predicament for her. Not only was pain thrumming through her joints at every tug, but her unmentionables were on display! Her dirty, unwashed, unclean unmentionables! 

It was at this particular moment that the dwarves, fully armed and prepared to fight, lunged into the clearing. The trolls were not at all pleased to see them appear, and if you believe it was possible neither was Bilba. Of all the timing, this had got to be the worst. 

Bilba’s knickers. Her drawers. Her bloomers. Whatever you chose to call them, it didn’t change the fact that they were visible for all to see. She was horrifically horrified. 

Bilba screamed. Having been relatively complacent this whole time, the sound was shattering. She wriggled and writhed about, trying in vain to hide herself. 

“DON’T LOOK! COVER YOUR EYES!” she shrieked with craze. 

The dwarves were startled beyond measure, and were so confused that most of them actually dashed their eyes away, covering them with their beards and blushing and fumbling their weapons in the process. The chaos of it all the trolls used to their advantage, and while William held on to Bilba, Bert and Tom popped the dwarves into individual sacks, tied off nice and tight. The dwarves didn’t even get to put up a struggle. 

They were laid into a neat little row with weapons piled off to the side, Bilba now right-side up in William’s clutch. Relieved that she was no longer indecent, a wave of realization hit her. It was most likely her fault that the dwarves were captured. 

Bashful, she glanced down at them all, heads peeping out of the top of the sacks, and not a single pair of eyes wasn’t glaring daggers at her. 

Kili still squirmed in his sack, raring to fight. “Bilba! Do something!” he yelled.

Yes, he was absolutely right! Bilba should do something! Her satchel was scrunched up below her shoulder just evading William’s grip. Jogging a free hand inside of it, Bilba found what she was looking for: her bird-shaped sewing scissors. 

She held them with a shaking hand and swallowed hard, for Bilba was never a proponent of violence, and her eyes then went wide at the prospect. Did she really have to go to such lengths? 

Hesitating, Bilba turned back towards the dwarves. They all were glaring spears at her now, exasperated and counting down to their doom. She was confused at the reception of her procured weapon. Really, it was the best she could do given the circumstances. 

“That’ll do no better than a splinter!” Nori hissed, “I thought you said you had a knife!” 

“I didn’t say anything about having a knife!” Bilba stated rather defensively, “I thought my reaction spoke for itself!”

“It did! It said you had a knife!”

“Quit yer gripin’!” William hollered, jostling Bilba for good measure. 

Bilba squeaked in surprise, and out flew her scissors from her hand; she heard the muffled plink of them hitting the ground below. 

Bilba didn’t peek to see whatever sharp, pointy objects the dwarves were all glaring at her this time, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t feel them.

She grimaced at her own futility, knowing full well that the dwarves were very disappointed in her, if not very angry (though if she had to admit, she was glad that she wouldn’t end up forcing her hand into anything hasty). 

Perhaps Bilba should try something else. An active protest of sorts. So she began to squirm against William’s hold on her, in an attempt to free herself. And free herself she did, though not in the way she imagined. 

“Eugh, now it’s wriggling,” William complained. And in he popped Bilba into a sack, tossing her in line with the others. 

A chorus of defeated sighs and quiet groans greeted her rough landing. 

“Remind me again why we brought the hafling along?” she heard Dwalin grumble. 

His words struck hard, but Bilba recovered to find herself echoing his sentiments. Why had they brought her along? 

“Well, I guess that’s that,” Bofur shrugged. “Bombur, I couldn’t have asked for a better brother. Bifur, you’re a top notch cousin—I only wish we could have talked more.”

Bifur sounded a grunt in return. 

“I hardly think we need to say our goodbyes,” Dori said, his nervous rise in pitch not sounding all too convincing. After all, they’d already spent some time listening to the trolls argue amongst themselves how best to prepare them for supper. None of it was comforting to hear, and no one was looking forward to getting either squished into jam or roasted on a spit. 

Bilba’s pulse raced at an alarming rate; this was the first real danger they had come across on their journey so far, and in fact the first real danger Bilba had experienced in general. Adventures were not all songs and pony rides it would seem. 

She curled up in the tangles and folds of the sack, squinting her eyes shut to cease the endless spinning around her. Bilba could feel she was on the verge of a fainting spell, but she wouldn’t allow herself to slip away and abandon everyone so easily. The thundering of the trolls kept her conscious enough, but suddenly, Bilba noticed something was off. There was a certain chaos lining the trolls’ shouts and a discord disrupting their actions that suggested not all was in their favor. She pricked her ears and opened an eye with newfound expectation. 

“And I say boiling ‘em is no good!” said Bert. 

“I didn’t say we should boil ‘em!” Tom shouted back. 

“Well somebody did, and we says it’s you!” Bert and William said in unison. 

“We all agreed on roastin’ em, so let’s do it now—we’ll start with the one on the end,” Tom said. 

“I say we start with the fattest,” said a voice sounding peculiarly similar to William. 

“Oi, don’t you start!” Bert said, bopping William behind the head. 

“Start what? You said it!”

The confusion persisted and plagued on, leaving the trolls unable to arrive at an acceptable consensus. It was all on account of that one voice, strangely similar in tone to the trolls’, interspersed throughout the argument to cause only more division. The dwarves and Bilba surveyed this with a sliver of hope, which waxed all the larger as the minutes passed and slid into hours. Perhaps…just perhaps…

“We need to at least do somethin’ afore dawn!” Bert wailed. 

“It is high time for dawn, and the sun rises to meet your ends! To stone you all turn—to stone!” and out stepped Gandalf from nowhere at all, shining in the pale morning light. It was exceedingly all too bright for the trolls however, for sunlight hails their destruction. And before any of them could cry out in surprise or realize what trouble they had been tricked into, they all stuttered to a stop, creaking and crackling as every ounce of them turned to solid rock. There they stand to this day, mere grotesque statues in the eyes of passerby, never to wreak havoc again. 

“Well,” Gandalf began, rubbing his hands together, “that could have been a terrible business had I not showed up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE shoutout to my roommate! Not a word of this story gets posted without it seeing her eyes and earning her approval. She helped me rework an important part of the troll scene--I originally had Bilba actually stab Bill with the scissors, but she pointed out that this would be much too drastic a move for my Bilba, and I had to agree. I guess I'm just getting a little too antsy over Bilba's progression, haha.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Okay wow, I haven't updated this in eons. Which is cray, because I actually have about 12 chapters worth written already. But I graduated college last May and got a job right after and hoo boy life with a job is totally different let me tell you. Bizzay bizzay. I've had some free time lately though and I got The Hobbit extended for Christmas, so my adoration for the fandom rekindled and memories of my fanfic resurfaced. I think I might go back to writing it, but if not, I'll at least update once a month with the chapters I've written so far. 
> 
> But also, HUGE apology for dropping off of the earth and not updating at all. Thank you for your patience! As always, I love hearing your feedback, so lemme know what you think. :)

He smiled down at them all, pleased as punch with himself and amused at their impatient squirms. They did look ridiculous, beards jutting out every which way from the tops of fidgeting sacks. Bilba at least managed to maintain some dignity, as did Thorin, and they kept still in the stead of their restless companions.

“What a fine mess you lot have got yourselves into!” Gandalf said raising his brows. 

“All thanks to your burglar, no less!” Gloin growled out. 

“Indeed?” Gandalf cast a curious glance in Bilba’s direction, who flushed and looked away in turn. 

“Never mind that now! Can you get us out of these confounded sacks?” Dori cried out. 

“Ah, yes yes, of course,” Gandalf mused rolling up his sleeves, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Bilba shook her head, knowing that the wizard was getting an exorbitant amount of enjoyment out of this. In her opinion, they had been far too near being made into pies—or whatever other nonsense the trolls would have concocted—for him to be toying with them at the moment. 

After they were all stretching the cricks and cramps out of their backs and joints, everyone’s moods lightened and jokes were made at the trolls’ expense and triumphant ditties were sung.

Thorin however was still disgruntled; Bilba had noticed that once he was in an unpleasant mood, he held fast to it. Right then was no exception. 

“And just where did you run off to, without a word of notice I might add, some time ago?” Thorin demanded of Gandalf. 

“If you must know, Master Dwarf, I had some matters of my own to attend to. And since I happened to be along the path your journey will take you, I also used it as an opportunity to look ahead.”

“Then what brought you back?” 

“Looking behind.”

Thorin snorted at this, still not pleased. “Keep your secrets then. I will thank you for your aid, but I fear we would not have needed it had it not been for this so-called ‘burglar’ of yours,” Thorin said, glaring at Bilba. 

Bilba shrunk under his piercing gaze, the flames leaping behind his eyes giving away the rage that his taut expression did not. She fretfully began to yank at the hair on one of her feet. 

“Just what were you thinking? Did you not promise to scout the area and nothing more?” Thorin questioned, rounding on her. 

Bilba wrung the hair in her hand. “Technically, I hadn’t promised. I believed it to be more of an understanding.” This was not the right thing to say, and Bilba rushed to quell Thorin’s mounting fury, “But, you see, I only meant to live up to my terms of employment as a burglar, is all! Why, Nori even—” 

But as Bilba searched to point him out, he was nowhere to be found. Drat him the little sneak, he must have slunk away to avoid any of the criticism that was sure to befall him, Bilba correctly deducted. Why, she wouldn’t have given pickpocketing a single thought had he not persuaded her! And here she was getting all the blame, though she had earned a large portion of it. 

Thorin frowned, adding fuel to the fire in his eyes. “Poor timing to practice your burgling, wouldn’t you agree, Ms. Baggins?” Bilba did not appreciate his scathing tone, but she knew she deserved it and she hung her head in response. Bilba didn’t even bother correcting him on her name this time.

“And speaking of burgling—,” Thorin whirled around to face Gandalf once more, who while Bilba was being reprimanded was trying to slink away himself, “I’d like to know why you considered it wise to bring her along in the first place?” 

Gandalf straightened and sighed. “Thorin Oakenshield, your stubbornness never fails to amaze me. Did you or did you not agree?”

Now it was Thorin’s turn to sigh, though his was much more aggravated. “I may have agreed to it, but I don’t believe you held up your end of the bargain, or at least revealed your terms as plainly as you should have. It was one thing to agree to a hobbit, but a woman hobbit? That fact didn’t come to light till we showed up at her doorstep!” 

Thorin was angry. Very angry. His voice and ire rose at every word, and his fists were shaking at the ferocity of clenching them. 

Gandalf gave him a warning look, “Now Thorin, the plan—” 

Thorin swore. “Curse the plan!” he interrupted. “I don’t know how you were able to swindle me before, but now I see I had to be under some spell of yours for me to have agreed. I hardly believed you then, and now I’m even less likely to believe you now. This hafling should not have come!”

Bilba went numb all over and her throat tightened as a lump formed there. She wished she wasn’t hearing this, any of this. 

Gandalf looked hurt on Bilba’s behalf, and his voice rose to compete with Thorin’s. 

“Thorin Oakenshield, I said it once and I’ll say it again! Your plan will fail without Bilba! She is the key to any chance of success!” he appeared to swell in size and darken in demeanor, stunning everyone into stillness. But Thorin was not fazed. 

“What success has she brought us? This hafling has just endangered every member of my company! I see no value in her addition,” Thorin spat.

This stung Bilba a good deal, but, she conceded, of course he wouldn’t see any value in her. All she had contributed thus far was her useless embroidery and managing to get everyone captured and nearly eaten. Bilba could feel her eyes begin to prickle, but she couldn’t cry. Not now at least. Not while everyone in the company was intently focused on her.

Thorin charged on in has rampage. Whatever Gandalf said in efforts to placate him roused Thorin’s wrath further. He kept finding more things wrong with deciding to bring Bilba along: she was a woman; she was unskilled with any sort of weaponry; she was inexperienced; she was fragile; she was a woman; etcetera etcetera etcetera. 

Bilba hadn’t known exactly just how much convincing Thorin had needed to oblige to bring her, and apparently neither had anyone else, except maybe for Dwalin, Balin, or Fili, if their lack of shock was anything to go by. It was all unnerving and equally disparaging to discover. Her mind revisited Gandalf’s mention of the quest hinging on her. Was she supposed to know this? It seemed rather important for her not to be made aware. 

And yet Thorin knew this…and he was still against her. 

“She knows nothing of the world! She should never have come! Who are you to trust her to us? Who is she to deserve our trust?”

“I am Bilba Baggins.”

It came out barely above a whisper, and Bilba wouldn’t even have realized she said anything at all had Gandalf and Thorin not both paused to turn towards her. Had she just been tired of standing there, idle and unmoving, letting Thorin’s judgment slander her character and be the final say? Had it been the unearthing of her prophetic contribution to their success? Had it been her confounded Took side? Whatever it was that brought her to speak, she had spoken. Well, you best say something else then, she urged.

“I am Bilba Baggins,” she repeated with confidence. She planted her foot firmly on the ground to put an end to her distressed hair twisting. She then blinked back the threatening tears before moving on. 

“Bilba,” she imparted once more for good measure. “Had you not said, Thorin Oakenshield, that mine is a name of potential? Have I not then the potential to be a member of this company? To be a burglar? To be the key to this quest’s success?” 

Bilba stopped to allow the words to leave an impression. Thorin meanwhile was examining her with a skeptical air. At least he was listening, that was a good sign. 

She must have been out of her mind to state her case like this, when now would have been the ample opportunity to request her swift return home. Thorin would gladly dismiss her, and Gandalf she was sure would offer himself as escort. Then why didn’t she? Why did she want to stay?

“I want to stay. I’ve had a simple life, with all the joys and comforts that come with it, but you have not. You have all struggled and done whatever means necessary to create a new life for yourselves after your old one was taken from you. I say that’s not right. I say it’s high time I’ve paid my dues and forgone some comforts so that you might have them. You should have your lives back. I know that my being a woman concerns you, but I assure you that it need not—I will work just as hard as any hobbit man ever would, so there’s no reason to coddle me. I will pull my weight; I will perform the tasks that you ask of me; I will do my best. If I’m really all that important as Gandalf says, then with all the potential that my name professes, I shall prove my worth…if you’ll let me, that is.” 

The silence was stagnant. Bilba all the while bated her breath, awaiting Thorin’s verdict. She inched onto the tips of her toes, and lifted her head a little higher. 

Thorin narrowed his eyes, but the flames that had been there seemed to have subsided. He looked around to consider the rest of his company before returning to assessing Bilba.  
He hadn’t meant to get so angry, and speak in such a way against her, but he had feared for her. Thorin waited as long as he could back at the campsite, but still Ms. Baggins had not returned. He suspected the worst, and could have kicked himself for sending her off on her own, quietest or not. Was she even armed? At this disturbing notion Thorin leapt up, grim set and gripping the hilt of his sword, ordering the others to join him in retrieving Ms. Baggins. 

He heard the trolls’ voices once they were a good five meters off. He paled. They must have caught her, damn it all. There could only be three at most, surely they could trounce them if they took the upper hand with an ambush. Thorin motioned out the plan, and with brazen dwarven resolve, they burst into the clearing all at once. 

What Thorin hadn’t planned for was all of them getting an eyeful of Ms. Baggins and being shocked senseless by her scandalized shrieks commanding them to look away. It was with a combination of surprise and chivalry that they adhered to her misplaced worries, and they were distracted long enough for them to all get captured themselves.

And then she had the gall to wield those harmless tweezers as a weapon. The naivety of it all had his blood boiling, focusing all of his energy on his anger rather than give way to the fear swelling within him. 

The fear that they wouldn’t make it out alive, that their journey would end so soon in failure in so ignoble a manner. 

The fear that it was his poor judgment of sending an unarmed woman to scout out a team of trolls that got them all into this deathtrap.

The fear that it was all his fault for acting in blindness. 

He was scared for them all; he was scared for Ms. Baggins.

But rather than be scared, he chose to be angry. 

And of course he had to take it out on that dratted wizard and their burglar. 

Was it justified? Perhaps. 

But even after all he said in his fit of fury, most of it negative opinions of Ms. Baggins herself, she still stood strong. And for some reason she still wanted to stay. Even after her explanation, he still didn’t understand it. Much like how he didn’t understand why his company of dwarves chose to follow him on this fool’s errand of a journey; he was not a true king after all, so what did they owe him? What did she owe him?

Why? 

After an eternity, Thorin spoke. 

“Ms. Bilba Baggins—for that is your name, as you were so prudent to point out multiple times earlier—I will not go as far to agree that you are the ‘key’ to the success of this mission…but I will not deny that you are adaptable. You may just yet rise to any number of potentials. If you are truly willing to continue with us, and promise—not ‘understand’—to adhere to my will, then I’ll allow you to remain a contracted member of this company.”

Bilba could have hugged him, but she refrained and instead channeled her gratitude through a spreading smile and a worthy curtsy. Thorin meanwhile gave her a solemn nod, hands clasped behind his back. 

Bilba understood that there was no reason for Thorin to have gotten so angry unless he cared; cared for and held himself responsible for every single one of their lives, including hers. And that is the mark of a true king, though he held the title in bearing only and not in backing. Even so, his regality shone through, so that Bilba felt it was of the highest honor to accept Thorin’s terms and remain at his service. He was no king of hers, but he was her leader, and he needn’t have his crown for him to have her allegiance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, this one is more angsty than I remember, mreheh. Honestly, I just feel so bad for it being this long since I updated. Thank you times a billion if you're actually reading this by the way!!! I'll for sure update next month if I get some feedback showing that this thing is being read.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you so much for the comments and kudos, everyone!! I super appreciate all the support--especially since it's been a while since I've been at this haha. Anyway, without further ado, here's the next chapter--one week later as promised! Hope you enjoy!

“Do you have any food with you?” Bombur asked, finally broaching the subject long weighing on everyone’s minds, especially Bilba’s since she had missed out on dinner with the rest of them. 

Searching eyes peered out from under the brim of his hat. “Why would I and why do you ask?” Gandalf inquired. 

“Most of ours got washed away,” Bombur mumbled, “and we’re all due meager portions indeed unless you have anything to contribute.” 

Gandalf apologized and shook his head, groans being shared all around, for everyone had been listening in with hopes that the wizard would rescue them further still. 

“I can’t be expected to save you from every plight you face!” Gandalf chided, as if reading their thoughts. “I’m a wizard, not a miracle maker!” 

“We don’t expect it of you,” Thorin glared, “But your counsel on our next course of action would be appreciated.”

To this Gandalf yielded, and he along with Thorin, Dwalin, and Balin isolated themselves a ways away to discuss in fervent tones the best way to proceed. 

With an absent mind, Bilba watched them from afar. It was then that she saw Nori sneaking out from the trees ahead, glancing around, optimistic that he hadn’t been missed.   
Oh, but he had, Bilba thought. And she drew her lips into a tight line and marched right on over before Nori had a chance to slip away again. 

“I’ll have you know that I got tossed all the blame with the whole troll business,” Bilba huffed. 

Nori appeared surprised at first, but any indication of such was flicked away with a cheeky smile. 

“I don’t think there would have been any business at all if you had been honest with me about not having a knife. Really, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said with a smirk. 

Bilba crossed her arms. “I made no mention of having a knife and you know it. Where would I have kept it anyway?”

Nori’s eyes travelled to her satchel, and Bilba scoffed. “Even I know that you wouldn’t keep a knife in a bag this thin.”

Nori shrugged. “Burglars make do. And besides,” he interjected, “I never heard you hoot; not once. As far as I was concerned, everything was fine and there weren’t any trolls at all.” 

“I don’t even know how to hoot!” Bilba cried out throwing up her hands. 

Nori side-eyed her. “I find that hard to believe. And what’s more,” he pursued, ignoring Bilba’s seething frustration, “why in Mahal’s name did you decide to pickpocket trolls? When I suggested the idea, I sure as day didn’t know there would be trolls involved. You made that decision on your own, honey-cake.”

Bilba opened her mouth, then closed it. He had a point. But that still didn’t change the fact that she expected Nori to apologize for abandoning her to be the sole recipient of Thorin’s wrath. And…did he just call her honey-cake? 

“Did…you just call me ‘honey-cake’?” 

Nori gave her a dashing wink.

Bilba gaped at him. “That is two apologies I expect now. One,” she held up a finger, “for leaving me all the blame. And two,” she joined a second finger with the first, “for the tasteless nickname.” 

“Tasteless?” Nori exclaimed. 

Bilba nodded. “You could do immensely better.”

“I’ll remember that,” Nori considered, and, upon noticing Bilba’s impatient foot tapping, he rolled his eyes before adding two very well-worded, sincere apologies for his actions, not without muttering under his breath mind you, but it was good enough for Bilba. 

“Thank you, Nori. I accept your apologies,” Bilba said in a just manner, and held out a hand to shake so as to put the matter behind them. 

Nori accepted her hand in his own, but instead of a shake, he brought his lips to the back of Bilba’s hand and gave it a quick peck. 

Bilba widened her eyes and wrenched back her arm, much to Nori’s amusement. 

“You enjoy getting me all worked up, don’t you?” she muttered with a blush. 

“I can’t deny that it’s a simple pleasure, but yes,” he said with a devilish grin. 

Bilba tried not to smile as she shook her head at him, then stalked off to return to the others and be rid of that meddlesome dwarf. 

“That was very brave of you, Bilba,” Fili said, appearing at her side. 

Bilba at first believed him to be referring to her interaction with Nori earlier, but on account of that making no sense whatsoever she settled that he had to be talking about the trolls. Had he really thought her brave? 

“Brave?” Bilba blinked. She wouldn’t say the way she faced the trolls would be considered brave at all, in fact quite the opposite since she almost fainted several times throughout the encounter. 

Kili soon bounded to her other side. “I agree, very brave.” 

Now Bilba was confused. 

“Honestly, I was very frightened! Why, I couldn’t even do anything of consequence! I was definitely not brave.” As much as Bilba wanted to carry the credit of bravery, she in no way earned it and would prefer not having any titles falsely handed to her. 

“Bilba, what are you talking about? You faced Thorin head on—didn’t even falter!” 

“Yes, he was dangerously mad and you carried on like he was only mildly annoyed.” 

Bilba looked between the two of them and their meaning clicked into place. “Thorin? Brave for that?” She stifled a giggle at their insistent nods. “Oh no, he was only concerned for us all, really—I wouldn’t say he was ‘dangerously mad’ and I wouldn’t call myself brave for speaking up when quite frankly it would have been appalling for me not to, what with my position on the line you see.” 

Fili and Kili exchanged glances with raised brows. 

“Even so, it’s not often that someone takes it upon themselves to speak up to Uncle—not at least while he’s like that and it’s someone of your…stature,” Kili argued, waving his hands in such a way that he was obviously motioning her height. 

Bilba planted her fists on her hips. “And what exactly are you implying, Master Dwarf? I’ll have you know that I am a rather average height among hobbits—very respectable and not short at all,” she teased. 

Kili played along, putting on a show of backtracking to correct himself  
.   
“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply that you were short! No no, not at all! By ‘stature’ I meant, um, well…Fili knows what I meant, right Fili?”

“Yes, he meant you were short,” Fili gibed. 

Kili wore an expression of exaggerated hurt, and he staggered as if hit by a blow.

“Fili…I…trusted you,” he breathed. 

This got him a cuff behind his ears, courtesy of Fili, and Bilba couldn’t help but laugh aloud. 

She had been nervous that after Thorin expressed doubts about her joining the Company, others would step up and voice their complaints as well. But nobody had said anything to suggest that they didn’t accept her, if not grudgingly (she thought of Dwalin and Gloin specifically), and in Fili and Kili’s case they were actively engaging her which came as a huge relief. 

She noticed something out of the corner of her eyes, and her attention was drawn to the grass around the now stone trolls’ feet. There, glinting in the sun that seeped through the trees, were her bird-shaped sewing scissors. Bilba gave a cry of delight, and rushed to the spot immediately, picking them up and examining them for damage. Luck was with her it would seem, for they were in perfect condition. Satisfied and thinking that this boded as a good sign, Bilba undid her satchel and laid them gently at the bottom. 

“What all have you got in there? I’ve been meanin’ to ask,” a voice called. 

Bilba jumped and turned to meet Bofur, who was looking at her bag with twinkling and curious eyes. 

Shrugging, Bilba peeked inside, not quite remembering herself just what she tossed into her bag that fateful morning, though she recalled with regret that there wouldn’t be a hand mirror. 

She inspected the items. Her embroidery hoop and napkin—which only had a little bit of thread left—and her sewing scissors of course. Nearby lay a magnifying glass without a handle, for practical use of sliding it across a page. She also had a brass canister of face-powder with a poof, which she had yet to use because she simply forgot she brought it. Also a tiny bottle of flower scented perfume, which right then she applied a generous amount of to her wrists and neck to stifle the stench of troll hovering around her person. Extra ribbons for her hair, a flat box of assorted doilies, a hummingbird broach, and…that was it.

It was a proper collection of a woman’s knick-knacks, that much was certain. However, Bilba felt herself redden upon listing off the objects to Bofur, knowing full well that they would be of little if any use at all. For having been rushing about in a state of Tookishness, it was plainly clear that it was her Bagginsishness that packed, and no doubt she had thought them of the most vital importance at the time. 

Bofur chuckled, which made Bilba even more self-conscious and embarrassed with herself. 

“Sounds like the perfect amount of everything to me,” he said, tapping his nose with a mittened finger. 

“If you say so,” Bilba laughed, gratitude relaxing her shoulders. Bofur reminded her a bit of Fili and Kili, she admitted, though he always seemed to retain his high spirits while the other two could somber themselves at times. He also possessed more of a whimsy, as evidenced by his eccentric hat and creative toy whittling, while with Fili and Kili they held more of a good-natured mischief. Nori was mischievous too, but his mischief was for the sole benefit of Nori and had no nature to be remotely thought of as good, Bilba mentally sniffed. 

“Is that yours too?” Bofur pointed to something behind her, looking unsure that he recognized it. 

Bilba followed his outstretched hand, and her eyes lighted on an oversized, velvet purse. 

She recognized it at once, it having been the cause behind her bungled burgling. “Oh, that’s what I managed to get out of Mr. William’s pocket!”

At this point, Thorin, Dwalin, Balin, and Gandalf had finished their conferencing and were returning to the rest of the group. 

“Ms. Baggins,” Thorin drawled, “there’s no reason to be proper with a troll. Especially one who was planning to eat us.”

“Oh, right,” she flushed, “Just William then?”

“Bastard would do as well,” Dwalin growled. Balin shot him a look at this, silently imploring him to mind his language. “Mr. Bastard, I mean,” he amended. Balin just rolled his eyes, coming to terms with the fact that his brother was long beyond correcting at this point.

“Well, it would seem our decision has been made!” Gandalf exclaimed, “If I am not mistaken, there will be a key inside that wallet—a key to the trolls’ dwelling.”

He was aiming to pick it up when he noticed Bilba shrinking behind Bofur. “Be careful. It talks,” she warned. 

Gandalf looked down at the wallet with keen interest, and whispered an inaudible spell to magic away any sort of trouble it would have given him. “Thank you, Bilba. That should still it for the moment.” And without any defiant utterance from the wallet whatsoever, Gandalf reached in and pulled out the very key he said would be there. 

“Aha! What say you, Thorin?” Gandalf pressed, twirling the key between his fingers. 

Thorin crossed his arms, seeming to grow tired of Gandalf consistently proving himself right. “Well, let’s go find their hidden cave then,” he conceded. He then called out some orders, and everyone was ready to begin their search.

They trekked up a hill towards an outcropping of rock, where Gandalf assured them must lay the entrance to the troll’s horde, seeing as it was close enough to escape to at the first notice of dawn. 

“Maybe they have food stored away!” Ori said with a wistful rub of his stomach. 

“If there is any, we would want no part of it—it’s a troll horde! Half of it would be spoiled rotten and the other half would be…well, we would want no part of it,” Dori lectured.

“Nonsense, Master Dori,” Gandalf said, “Trolls can be very reasonable eaters, when they are not eating you or me. I’m sure we can find something in there to munch on.”

At that, everyone started to search the rocks a little more diligently, some of the dwarves going as far as procuring chisels and tools to test the thickness of the stone. 

It was Bilba’s hunger that championed in the end, calling to attention a peculiar jagged crack that may or may not have been similar to the seam of a door meeting a frame.

“Proving her worth already,” Balin said, clapping Bilba on her shoulder. 

Bilba hardly paid any mind to the fact that she almost buckled under the force of his gesture, for she was overtaken by a giddy rush that someone as revered as Balin had such a positive light to cast on her.

Gandalf inserted the key into the proper place, and with a promising click and a big push, the stone formed a door and swung inward. 

It was a wonder any of them decided to enter after a sickening smell curled into their nostrils, ten times worse than the stink of the sacks they were kept in or William’s fat fingers even. Bilba nearly gagged at how putrid it was, and she guarded her face in the crook of her sleeve. 

“Here, Ms. Baggins,” Thorin choked out, eyes watering. He offered her a torn sheath of cloth, covering his own mouth with one as well. 

Bilba convinced herself it was a handkerchief and accepted it gladly with a thank you and a muffled “It’s Bilba.” 

He ignored her though, and ventured to the back of the cave, treading with caution across the floor littered with bones and discarded clothing (from victims, no doubt). 

Bilba glanced around, clasping the cloth around her mouth and nose. There definitely wasn’t much of value to be seen, unless you counted the barrels of gold coins pushed against the walls that Gloin, Bofur, and Nori were studiously inspecting. 

Bofur was sifting through them all, watching in awe as the pieces slipped past his fingers to clink against hundreds more below. Nori bit one, and gave an affirmative nod to say that indeed, the gold was real. 

“There must be six-hundred per barrel, at least!” Gloin accounted, “Nori, get a shovel.”

Bilba heard them mention something about a “long-term deposit” before she spotted Bombur making a mad dash for some shelves. She hurried to follow suit, assuming that he noticed where the food must be kept. Her assumptions were proven correct, and she and Bombur admired the sloppy array of bread, cheese, and bacon—that which hadn’t rotted, that is. 

“There’s even ale too!” Bombur cried out, on the verge of happy tears. Bilba could feel herself getting just as emotional; it had been over half a day since her last meal, after all.

“Bombur,” Bilba looked up at him in earnest, “let’s start cooking.”

Both of them carried armfuls of fresh vittles out of the cave, being careful not to drop a crumb so as to conserve every bite. 

“I say we make nice, hearty sandwiches,” Bilba babbled, “We fry the bacon, toast the bread, melt the cheese on top—fill us right up.”

Bombur licked his lips expectantly. “I say you’re right! I’ll get Oin to start a fire for us. I’m wearing my pack so I have all my pots and pans with me as well.” 

It didn’t take long for the stench of the troll horde to be overpowered by the salivating aroma of Bilba and Bombur’s sandwiches. All the others started to gather round, placing their orders and waiting their turn. Bilba nibbled in content at her third sandwich as she tended to frying the bacon, merely nodding at the compliments the dwarves thrust at her.

“I knew you two were the perfect pair,” Bofur moaned through a worthy mouthful. 

Bombur rapped him lightly with his spatula, his cheeks coloring.

After nearly everyone had finished, Gandalf and Thorin exited the cave, the last ones to do so. In their hands they carried swords with jeweled hilts, catching everyone’s attentions immediately. 

“Ah, these blades were at the back of the cave,” Gandalf explained. 

“There were mainly simple weapons to be found, but there are always diamonds in the rough,” Thorin said, unsheathing his own sword so that all could admire the craftsmanship.

“Aye, a fine blade,” Balin admitted, “though it looks a might bit elvish in make.”

At this Thorin recoiled and his grip on the weapon loosened, but Gandalf advised him against being a fool and abandoning a perfectly good sword. In the end, he kept it, and it served him well for as long as he had it. 

Thorin then brandished another weapon, a sheathed knife from the looks of it, and this he carried to Bilba. She hurried to gulp down the large bite of sandwich she had been savoring and flushed as she rubbed her face free of any lingering food.

“I like my burglars to be armed,” Thorin said as he presented the knife to her. He had seen it and thought of her immediately, relieved that there was now a way Ms. Baggins could protect herself should he be unable; he held himself responsible for her fate, as he did with every member of the Company of course. 

Bilba took it with wide eyes; though it made a knife for a man, it was as good as a short sword for a hobbit.

“But I’ve never…used a sword,” she murmured, running her fingers along the sheath.

Balin chuckled. “It’s not really a sword, more of a letter-opener.” 

Well, letter-openers are still sharp and pointy, she thought with concern. “I won’t have to use it, will I?” 

“Hopefully not,” said Gandalf, “but it never hurts to be prepared.”

“You’ll only have to resort to it if you drop your scissors again,” Kili teased. And at this they all laughed, Bilba included, though she felt rather silly. At least they were all looking back at the whole troll incident with light hearts and didn’t harbor any resentment towards her causing them to get captured.

Bilba frowned. That reminded her. She had something she needed to attend to. 

Bombur took over in making Gandalf and Thorin sandwiches, so Bilba was freed to search for a certain dwarf. Glancing around, she found Dwalin leaning against a tree sharpening his axes. Pushing herself up, Bilba dusted off any dirt and dust and made her way over to him. He didn’t look up at first, leaving Bilba to rock back and forth on her heels till Dwalin sighed and acknowledged her. 

“What do you want?” he growled, eyes flitting to her for a moment before returning to focus on his work. 

Bilba cleared her throat, then wrung her hands in her skirt. She was struggling to find the words, and was having a difficult time at deciding where to begin. Dwalin noticed her hesitation, and looked back at her to see her face turn a pure red as she cast her eyes to the ground. 

He frowned, not liking where this was going. “Spit it out then,” his voice rumbled. 

“I…well, I was wondering, Master Dwalin, that is, if perchance by some chance you happened to maybe have a…well…to maybe have an extra pair of trousers? For me to wear, you see,” she rushed to add. 

Dwalin nearly dropped his axe, and he stared at her incredulously. His cheeks began to grow ruddy themselves, and he only noticed that his mouth had fallen open once he moved to speak. “In Mahal’s name, why are you asking me?” 

Bilba blinked at him, hands fluttering about in disarray before having them settle and tug at the faded green hood and cloak she currently donned; the set that none other than Dwalin had loaned her.

He rolled his eyes as he forced a groan. “So what, am I your tailor now?”

Bilba continued to grope at her skirt in a fitful fashion. “Certainly not!” she assured. “You had just been so free to lend to me before that I thought maybe you had plenty to spare. And perhaps possibly you could spare an extra pair of trousers so that I wouldn’t have any more, well, you see, any more…episodes…similar to earlier…with—with the trolls.”

Bilba didn’t dare meet Dwalin’s eyes, irritating him considerably. She only stared at her skirt, fiddling with it this way and that. He didn’t even know what it was that had her so disturbed! 

“What are you even talking abou—” and it hit him. Her skirt. The episode with the skirt—or deficiency of the skirt in that particular case. Dwalin tensed up, squeezing his arms tight to his sides and clenching his jaw. What was he supposed to say now? He didn’t want to deal with this! As determined as Bilba was to not look at him, he was now just as determined to avoid this as well.

“Does anyone have an extra pair of trousers for the hobbit?” he found himself blurting loudly. 

He noticed Bilba freeze. It probably wasn’t a very tactful way to present the issue, but at least it wasn’t his problem anymore. All the other dwarves had already jarred to a halt to turn in wonder at the two of them. In no time at all someone would pluck the problem away. 

“Sorry…what?” Oin asked, readjusting his ear trumpet. 

“You heard me!” Dwalin said, folding his arms across his chest and scowling, “The lass wants some trousers! Anyone got some?”

Bilba simply buried her head in her hands and shrunk into herself. It had been a terrible mistake to ask Dwalin. 

Nori snapped his fingers. “Ohh, is this because of the whole exposing your knickers thing?” 

A terrible, terrible mistake. 

“Nori, you ass! Of course that’s what it is!” Dwalin growled. “Now, someone fit the hobbit with some trousers!” And with that, he hoisted up all his axes and trudged towards a tree far, far away. He most assuredly thought it an excellent maneuver on his part. 

Nobody said anything, but there was a good deal of coughing and beard scratching. It reached a point that Bilba couldn’t take it any longer. “Oh would someone just please lend me some slacks!”

All the dwarves looked at one another uncomfortably, shuffling their feet. Who would be the one to offer their trousers? Nobody volunteered. 

Bilba heaved an exasperated sigh. Propriety was about to fly right out the metaphorical window and it looked like she would be the one to throw it. “Fine then. Ori!”

Ori squeaked in response. 

“You’re nearest my size, so your fit might be closest to mine. Do you have any you’d be willing to lend?” 

Ori turned to Dori in sheer mortification, silently begging his brother to answer for him, but unfortunately for him (and everyone else as well), the wrong brother responded to his pleas. 

“Come on, Ori! Be a good sport and let Bilba get into your pants!” Nori sang out. 

There was only a moment’s pause between Nori’s lewd comment and Dori punching him square in the stomach, leaving him gasping for air. 

“Please excuse Nori, Bilba—I’ll be sure to talk some manners into him,” said Dori, though there was a forced sweetness to his words that suggested he had something a bit more physical than “talking” in mind. He then yanked Nori by the ear and dragged him away to commence his lecture without disrupting anyone. 

I’m sure more than one dwarf would have liked to see how that conversation went, if only to escape their present discomfort. Dropped jaws had been a collective reaction to the whole debacle, and dropped they remained and went lower still when Thorin Oakenshield himself was the one to clear his throat and say:

“Ms. Baggins, as it looks like there aren’t any other offers, I will accommodate your request.”

Bilba would have liked to gawk at him, as the other dwarves were doing all too freely, but she felt that it would be rude of her since he was being so charitable. 

“Just Bilba, if you please,” she began hastily, “But I—well, I thank you, Thorin. But…I—I couldn’t possibly!” 

Thorin frowned at her. “And why not?”

Yes, why not? What were her reservations about this? It’s because he’s a king, she told herself. She couldn’t deprive a king of his clothes! 

“You’re a—you’re a king!” Bilba faltered. 

“And a king should provide for his people,” Thorin stated firmly. 

Now Bilba gawked. 

She quickly folded her arms and turned up her head. “Well then, I suppose there’s no arguing against you when you’re this set on something—you’re exceedingly stubborn, after all. Very well, I accept and appreciate your generosity.”

The other dwarves tried their best to hide their amusement at this turn of events, and succeeded on Bilba’s behalf only. Thorin however recognized their dimpling faces for what they were and glowered them into submission; he didn’t approve of what they were insinuating.

Gandalf looked downright delighted with himself, and muttered into his pipe something about smoke rings, though he failed to puff any on account of being unable to keep his lips pursed with all his chuckling.

After everyone calmed down, they realized just how tired they all were with full stomachs and evenings empty of rest, so they doused the fire, packed what leftover food they could, retrieved Dori, Nori, and Dwalin, and trailed their way back to the original campsite. A nap was a much needed repose, and they did nothing more till long into midday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo hoo, there we go! This chapter was a really fun one to write! I was giggling the whole time throughout hee hee.

**Author's Note:**

> There we go, chapter one! Thanks for reading! Based on feedback, I might actually continue writing this. The thought of having Bilbo be female always interested me ever since I first read the book seven years ago, and now I'm finally writing down some thoughts, haha. Who'da thunk I'd still be just as obsessed? 
> 
> Feel free to email me if you have any questions or just wanna chit-chat!


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